


Tired Bat

by MaskoftheRay



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: Batman is overworked, Batman is tired, Bruce and Clark are best friends... and so is Diana, Bruce needs to sleep okay?, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, One Shot Collection, Other, Some hurt/comfort, Some light sexy stuff between Bruce and Selina, Tired Bruce Wayne, bruce whump, maybe cursing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2019-06-07 20:19:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 34,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15227091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskoftheRay/pseuds/MaskoftheRay
Summary: This is a series of one-shots I wrote about Batman being tired, because we all know, Bruce is too overworked. Different situations and characters, mostly Batman and the JL. Really, I write whatever comes to mind. If you have any ideas, lmk in the comments. Will be updated as I get more ideas. Some BatCat, but nothing too serious. Mostly friendship fic.





	1. Monitor Duty

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I do not own these characters, DC Comics does.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce is (technically) doing monitor duty... even if it's not official. Actually, he's doing work because he's Batman, and Batman never sleeps. But he wakes Clark up, who is very annoyed because he has important stuff to do later and needs his beauty sleep. Can he get Bruce to finally take a break?

Bruce sighed and re-read the case file on the Watchtower’s giant screen for the fifth time. He blinked, narrowing his eyes. A yawn interrupted whatever he was thinking, and he growled, running a hand over his tired, tired eyes. It was late— about three-thirty a.m.— and this was the fourth night of practically no sleep he’d had that week, on top of a crazy patrol schedule thanks to Tim’s flu, and a demanding schedule at W.E. because of a merger with a mid-sized Chinese firm. Shaking his head, he went back to reading the case file on the League’s last run-in with these perps. As he scrolled through a page laden with statistics— he remembered compiling them for a presentation he’d later given to the League during a meeting— Bruce could feel a headache forming, and from the pounding that was already going on inside his skull, it was going to be a real doozy. As the digital clock marked another minute gone by, Bruce sighed and debated whether he should call it a night yet. But, as he recalled this group’s fondness of taking hostages— especially young, school-aged hostages— he grit his teeth and returned to the case file. 

Suddenly, a warm hand had encroached on his space and he managed not to jump, although he was given away by the way he jolted upright. And then he scowled, because Superman would really know something was wrong now— that being that Batman hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in four days— because he was never able to sneak up on Bruce normally. “Hey,” he said tiredly, hoping to distract Clark from whatever he was here to say; one did not, not even if one was a super, have casual conversations with friends at almost four in the morning. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” Clark asked, yawning. 

“Busy,” Bruce grunted, typing something. 

“Ah. Well, you going to be up much longer?” Clark asked, leaning more on Bruce’s chair. Bruce grunted at him, and he eased off, somewhat. 

“Maybe. I was planning on finishing this. Why are you up?” Bruce asked distractedly. 

“I got hungry. Want anything?” Clark asked, ambling away. Bruce paused. He could eat. 

“Get me a sandwich?” he asked. Clark waved a hand at him. Bruce muttered, “Thanks” and turned back to his typing. 

Clark wandered into the kitchen, yawning. The truth was, he’d been fast asleep, until he’d had a disturbing dream, which had made his sleep troubled… which meant he’d been able to hear things, like a certain bat’s typing. At three in the goddamned morning. Clark had sat up in bed, half-ready to chew Bruce out because he was keeping Clark up, and he had an important interview tomorrow. But, sighing, Clark realized that this would be a terrible idea. So instead, his plan was to lure Bruce away from the computer. He grabbed two sandwiches from the Founder’s fridge— his mother had sent a platter up yesterday and there were, remarkably, two or three still left. Then Clark flew back to where Bruce was now quite intently typing. He handed Bruce a sandwich and napkin. The other man took it, absently taking a bite. “Mm. Thanks,” he said. 

Clark hovered by his side. Bruce sighed and turned towards his Kryptonian shadow. “If you’re going to stay here, you might as well pull up a chair,” he said. Clark hauled over the other console chair and sat. 

“What’re you working on?” he asked… 

The next morning, Diana and Wally walked into the control room to start morning monitor duty when they came up short. Batman was slumped in one chair, a half-eaten sandwich on the console in front of him. He was lightly snoring and looked in danger of falling out of the chair. Next to him was Superman, head lolling on his shoulder, feet up on the console, like he was a passenger who’d fallen asleep during a road trip. His deep breaths would occasionally ruffle his hair, causing his one stubborn curl to shudder on his forehead. Diana smiled, and Wally froze. “What do we do?” he whispered to Diana. 

“I’ll wake them,” she said striding forward to her two friends, who, she was sure, would be quite embarrassed by the telling of this story to the other founding members of the Justice League.


	2. Otherwordly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set after an off-world mission with the Justice League. Batman, of course, is too busy doing post-mission reports to sleep. Until he gets too exhausted and accidentally sleeps, for like, nine hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own these characters, DC Comics does.

This was the second or third off-world mission the League had gone on, so the league members had grown somewhat used to each other already, and everyone was tired. Diana had a slight scowl on her face, which would have been normally quite alarming, except now everyone else was too worn down to notice. Superman’s cape was torn, his hair mussy, and he had a quickly-healing scrape on one cheek. Flash was busy eating, the Martian Manhunter was flying the Javelin in unusually pensive silence, Aquaman had withdrawn to a seat in the back and was staring out the window, and Hawkgirl was sitting a few seats away from him, reading something. Batman was the only one who didn’t look too tired, or at least, it was hard to tell if he was tired because of the cowl and because, if he was grumpy from lack of sleep, it appeared that he was no more grumpy than usual; if his general attituded was caused by a lack of sleep, it would explain a lot, anyways. In fact, he was sitting all alone in the middle of the plane— admittedly nearer to Superman and Wonder Woman than anyone else— typing something on a small tablet that nobody quite knew the origin of. The rather thick bandage around his bicep seemed to be no hinderance to him, based off the pensive scowl on his face. 

Breaking the moody silence, Green Lantern came back from the cockpit, where he had been assisting J’ohn, and announced, “We’re about ten hours out. Anyone up for some food?” There was a general murmur of assent, so John went back to the tiny kitchen and started throwing something together. It turned out it was a platter of small sandwiches, paired with bottles of water. He went around, offering some to the other members. Batman paused his typing and looked up at John for a moment, as if he wasn’t sure what was going on. Somehow, John found it in him to be civil, and asked graciously, “Want a sandwich?” Batman nodded, taking a couple, and the water Green Lantern proffered. 

“Thanks,” he said quietly. 

John paused a moment, trying to recall if Bruce had ever been this civil before, and nodded. “You’re welcome,” he said, moving on. 

After everyone had been fed and watered, John went back out to join J’ohn in the cockpit; the two had volunteered for this duty as they’d ended up having the least amount of fighting on the mission. Nobody was complaining, not even Batman. Once Green Lantern had gone, an air of silence once again settled over the cabin. But this time it was not a strained, tired silence, but one of gentle contemplation and sleepiness brought on by food. Shayera was the first to fall asleep, or rather, go to sleep. She decisively set down her book, unfurled her wings, and brought out a rolled-up blanket from her pack. She set it down a couple of seats away from her and lay down with a small sigh. Minutes later, she was asleep, her wings rustling slightly as she adjusted. 

Next was Wally. His head gradually drooped and his grip on his phone, on which he had been playing some game, loosened. He slumped sideways until his head was practically on Wonder Woman’s shoulder, and she was seated three seats over from Wally. However, Diana didn’t seem to mind all that much. Within fifteen minutes, they were both asleep, Wally’s head resting on her shoulder, Diana’s head gracefully resting against one of the walls, hair slightly askew. Clark was thoughtful enough to rescue Wally’s phone and set it on top of his small backpack. Aquaman stood abruptly and disappeared somewhere. Later, when Clark went to get another bottle of water, he’d find Arthur curled up under his blanket in the back with the other bags, his duffle bag used as a pillow. 

Then it was just Clark and Bruce awake. Clark glanced up from his computer— he was finishing a story that was due tomorrow, otherwise he’d have been the first one asleep— and saw Bruce was still working, slightly hunched over, mouth in its usual frown. Clark yawned, and shook his head, trying to get back to work. A couple minutes later, he looked up again, wanting to say something. Bruce had probably fought the hardest during the mission and had been captured by the enemy aliens at one point. He should be resting. But Shayera let out a loud snore— an almost disturbingly loud one— and Clark sighed to himself. He didn’t want to argue with Batman right now and risk disturbing the others, and god knew how difficult Bruce could be on a good day. But when he’d gotten no sleep… Clark couldn’t think of many scarier things. Clark shifted his attention back to his half-finished article and sighed quietly. It wouldn’t write itself… About twenty minutes later, he typed the last period and shut his computer off with a click. He hovered to his bag and stowed it, grabbing a sweatshirt to use as a pillow. He went to the row of seats in front of Hawkgirl, covered himself with his blanket, fluffed his sweatshirt, and hoped Bruce would have some common sense for once and get some sleep. 

Bruce had almost finished the mission report by the time Clark finally stopped throwing concerned glances his way and decided to go to sleep. Bruce was now the only one, besides Green Lantern and the Martian Manhunter, awake. He shut his computer and silently drifted back to where his bag was stored and entered the bathroom, shutting the door with a slight click. He unwound his bandage and cleaned it as thoroughly as he could in the small space, making a mental note to have Alfred put him on a course of antibiotics once he got back. He re-wrapped the wound and went back to work. 

A few hours later, people, or aliens, began stirring. Clark yawned, stretching, not realizing that he was hovering slightly. Shayera extended her wings to their full breadth and they stretched out, creating a small breeze. Arthur emerged from the back, looking refreshed, and Wally jolted awake as Diana shifted. He scooted two seats over, eyes wide. Diana smiled at him. He flushed red, muttering, “Sorry.” 

The only one who did not seem to be stirring was Batman. In fact, he was quite dead to the world, and looked like his exhaustion had finally caught up to him and he had fallen asleep in the middle of his work— his laptop was still open, and he was sitting in one seat cross-legged, looking almost Zen. His cape had fallen across him like a blanket, or maybe he’d pulled it over himself in his sleep. Batman was breathing deeply… and the most remarkable thing about the situation was that he had his cowl off. That was what made everyone pause for a moment because even in his sleep, Bruce looked exhausted. So, carefully, those who wanted to retreated towards the back of the plane to talk. 

A couple hours later, Bruce stirred, although his laptop was no longer perched in his lap— Clark had rescued it earlier and put it on the seat next to him. He unfolded his legs gracefully and stretched. “Coffee?” Clark asked standing in front of him. Bruce accepted neutrally. So that was what had woken him. He took a sip. 

“How long until we’re back?” he asked. 

“I think about an hour and a half,” Clark said thoughtfully. Bruce nodded trying not to look surprised; he’d really been asleep that long? 

As if reading his mind, Clark said, “You needed it. Trust me.” 

Not sure how to respond, Bruce just went, “Hm.”


	3. Mini Road Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce is injured and can't drive, the Bat jet isn't working, and he told the public he's recovering with friends on vacation. So what does that mean when he still has to get to Washington D.C. to do some Justice League work? Road trip with Superman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own these characters, DC Comics does. I Googled how long it takes to get to Washington D.C. from NYC and it says four hours and six minutes. I figure since Gotham is in NJ (I think) that it would take a little longer, especially if Clark had to pick up Bruce first. Also, there is TONS of traffic.

Bruce and Clark were sitting in Clark’s small 2008 Toyota Camry, on the outskirts of Metropolis. They were going to see Diana in D.C. Bruce wouldn’t normally have even been in this situation except that the jet was broken, and publicly, he was recovering from a broken arm with friends. He’d actually broken it after a run-in with Solomon Grundy, but that was a different story. So, he was here, letting Clark drive them to see Diana to discuss some upgrades to League security; the others were too busy, so the task had been relegated to the “trinity.” Clark tapped aimlessly at the wheel as he waited for the light to turn. Bruce was typing something on his phone one-handed— probably talking to Dick or Alfred, Clark guessed— and when the light turned, Clark stepped on the gas and they lurched forward. It was enough to cause Bruce to wince slightly as his casted arm was jolted. “Sorry,” Clark said nervously, “it does that sometimes. I’ve been meaning to get it looked at, but you know how it is… there’s always an alien invasion stopping you from taking the car in.” Bruce said nothing, and Clark waited. Bruce went back to his slow typing. 

But then, he said, “It might be your transmission. I’m not sure, the only car I’ve worked on is the bat mobile. I can take a look after the cast’s off, if you want.” Clark was silent for a moment, surprised. It was a generous offer, and he was quite relieved that Bruce hadn’t offered to do something ridiculous, like buying him a new car instead. He braked a little harder than he should have as they hit the next light. 

“Yeah, that’d be great. I’ll bring it by sometime. Unless you wanted to come back to Metropolis and do it here?” Clark asked, sneaking a glance sideways. Bruce still had his phone in his hand but was looking out the window as if he was awaiting a reply. 

“Bring it by the manor sometime; I have a bunch of tools there. Just try not to draw too much attention to yourself when you do it, alright?” he said. 

“Yeah, no problem. Thanks,” Clark said. 

“Mm hmm,” Bruce said. 

An hour later, they’d hit the more rural areas past the suburbs, and it was turning into farm land. Clark was humming slightly, enjoying the sunshine as he pulled over for gas. He turned his head to ask Bruce if he wanted anything from the small shop, when he saw that the other man was asleep. Clark frowned, not sure when that had happened. As quietly as he could, he got out of the car and filled up the tank. Then he went into the store and bought himself a juice and some peanuts and Bruce an iced coffee and a neck pillow. 

When he got back to the car, Bruce was still asleep, leaning against the passenger window. His phone was on the seat next to him, so Clark put it in the glovebox. Bruce’s broken arm was cradled on his lap in what looked like a very uncomfortable position. Clark set down his half-eaten peanuts and put Bruce’s coffee in the cupholder after using his freeze breath on it. As Bruce shifted, Clark put the neck pillow under his arm and started the car. Then they were off. 

Two hours later, they were nearing D.C. and the traffic was increasing. What normally would be a four-hour drive looked like it was going to be at least another hour long. Clark sighed, and glanced over at his still-sleeping passenger. Bruce hadn’t stirred much, so it had been a long, quiet drive for Clark. He was worried about the other man a little because Bruce had allowed himself to fall asleep for so long and be vulnerable. Finally, as they entered the D.C. area, traffic started moving a little faster. A red car pulled in front of Clark and he had to pump on the breaks. Bruce startled, looking around. “Hey. Sorry about that— some guy just cut me off,” Clark said. 

Bruce blinked, looking at the nearest road sign. “We’re in D.C.?” he asked, sounding a little groggy. 

“Yeah. You fell asleep right outside of Metropolis,” Clark said, putting his blinker on for the exit. 

Bruce bemusedly looked down at the small neck pillow under his arm. “You should have woken me up,” he said. 

Clark scoffed. “What good would that have done, Bruce? You can’t drive with your arm like that.” There was an awkward silence for a moment as Bruce huffed, and looked out the window. He noticed the still-cold coffee in the cupholder. 

“Is that for me?” he asked. 

“Yeah. It should still be cold,” Clark said. Bruce opened it one-handed and took a sip. 

“It is… thanks. Now tell me where you put my phone,” he said. 

About fifteen minutes later, Bruce directed him to Diana’s apartment, and he pulled into the parking garage and saw Diana standing there. She waved as they parked and walked over, opening Bruce’s door for him. He scowled a little but didn’t object. “How was the drive?” She asked Clark— the unsaid part being, “I hope Bruce didn’t drive.” 

“Good,” he said, “but I always forget how bad the traffic is around here.” Clark popped the trunk and Diana hurried over, grabbing Bruce’s bags before he could. Clark picked up his own bag and locked the car. 

“Diana,” Bruce complained, “I can carry my own bag.” 

“I’m sure you can, Bruce, but the question is, should you?” she replied smoothly. He huffed but made no other comment as Diana led them through the door.


	4. Date Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce and Selina have a date night at one of her (nicer) hideouts, because Selina gets what she wants... and she wants to have a nice evening with Bruce. Bruce, of course, is tired, but doesn't want to be a bad boyfriend. He needs to make it through the night without falling asleep, or upsetting his girlfriend; a daunting task for the Dark Knight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own these characters, DC Comics does. I figured Selina would have a smaller hideout, as she isn't really the show-off type, except when it comes to her professional skills. Also, I feel like it would be smarter to have a smaller hideout, if you were a villain because it would be more difficult to find, and easier to keep secure. But maybe that's just me.

Not a lot of people knew it, but Batman and Catwoman were dating, and occasionally, though she wasn’t really a sentimental woman, Selina insisted on them having a ‘proper’ date night. When Selina demanded something, she got it— Bruce had found this out the hard way, multiple times, to his chagrin. This time, she had insisted he come over to her small secondary-hideout apartment, right by Crime Alley. As he pulled up, parking the motorcycle under the brightest streetlight available, which wasn’t saying much— and he half-expected it to be gone later— Bruce couldn’t help but smirk. He remembered when he’d discovered this hideout, and how angry Selina had been. That had been one of their better fights. He walked up the stairs and as he was going to knock, the door opened, and there stood Selina, in nothing but a chartreuse bathrobe that offset her hair and augmented her eyes. Bruce was stunned for only a millisecond, but it was enough for her to notice. She smirked, and asked, “Coming in?” He swallowed, nodding, and she sauntered away, knowing he was watching. 

Bruce went down the small hallway, noting the work that had been done to the place since he’d last been there; Selina had painted and put down a new carpet, and most of the holes in the walls now were plastered over. There was still no light, but the glow from the next room was enough for the Batman. Bruce entered the room, not quite sure what to expect. He paused in the doorway. Selina was bent over, pouring two glasses of wine. He tore his gaze away and looked around the room. It was sparse but grew cozier closer to where they were. There was a large, plush black-and-white-striped rug, a used sofa, and a couple of throw pillows. There was also a fairly nice coffee table, and a small, older television. In the far side of the room was a minifridge and sink. Through a half-closed door, Bruce also saw the small bathroom. There was one light above and several lamps scattered throughout. The curtains looked like they had come from an old movie theater, but somehow, that added to the ambiance. Suddenly, he smelled popcorn, and realized that Selina had gone and returned without him noticing. He blinked and tried to shake off the sudden tiredness. She placed the popcorn bowl on the coffee table and laid a delicate hand on his shoulder. “You okay, Bruce?” she asked, a touch more concern than usual in her voice. 

Shaking his head slightly, he said, “Yes, Selina. I was just thinking about the last time I was here… I like the improvements.” She smirked, pulling on his arm until he’d sat next to her on the couch. 

“I remember that! I was so mad at you then. Yes, the coffee table was a steal— not literally, god, Bruce— I got it from a friend who was moving into a smaller place. The t.v. was a donation. Anyway, I figured we could watch 'Tomb Raider,' so when the new one comes out, we’ll be ready.” Bruce, who had been reaching for the popcorn, froze. 

“I didn’t know you liked that,” he said neutrally. Selina stole the bowl from him with a smirk and put a few pieces in front of his lips. Sighing, Bruce allowed her to feed him. She set the bowl down between them, satisfied. He tried not to roll his eyes. 

“Yeah, of course I like 'Tomb Raider!' In another life, my name would have been Laura Croft,” she said, leaning against him, and grabbing the remote. 

“Hmm,” he said, wrapping an arm around her. Selina turned on the t.v. and pressed play. Bruce tried to stay alert, but it was hard— it had been a very, very long week, and with Selina next to him, in a dark(ish) room, on a full stomach (he’d eaten most of the popcorn)— and it wasn’t long before his eyes started drooping shut. He fought it, and turned his gaze back to the screen, watching as the main character, Laura Croft, poorly executed a kick to some would-be assassin’s chest. He snorted, and Selina swatted him. 

“Quiet, Bat. Not everyone knows 120 different martial arts,” she said. 

“They should,” he said, pulling her closer. She leaned back into him, and he adjusted the pillow behind him. He yawned once, and told himself to not fall asleep, even as his eyes were drifting shut. 

Selina Kyle was no slouch— she knew something was up with Bruce when he’d failed to notice that she was gone. She guessed it was fatigue, what with the crazy crime spree recently, but you never knew with the Batman, so she’d been a bit on edge all evening. So, when halfway through the movie, she realized that it had been a while since Bruce had said anything, she turned around to make sure he wasn’t dying because he’d been poisoned and hadn’t bothered to tell her. Thankfully, it wasn’t that, and he’d just fallen asleep. She huffed a little, rolling her eyes. It wasn’t often she insisted on date nights and leave it to him to fall asleep. Although, she thought, at least he didn’t cancel last minute this time. With a sigh, she extracted herself from his limp grip and adjusted his pillow, so he’d be more comfortable. Then she lowered the volume, poured the rest of his wine into her glass, and pressed play. 

Laura Croft outran the enormous explosion, which blew up the main baddie, and the temple and managed to dive into the river, with the golden staff stored securely in her bag, at the last minute. Her head popped up out of the water and she was seen getting into a small boat with her partner. As the boat drove away, the end credits rolled. Selina yawned. Suddenly, Bruce sat upright, and blinked. She looked at him neutrally, accessing if he’d had a nightmare. Her unspoken concern was answered when he looked at his hands bashfully. “I fell asleep, didn’t I?” he asked. 

Repressing a twinge of irritation, she said, “Yes.” He sat up farther, and Selina shifted, allowing him to put his feet on the floor. 

“Sorry,” he said, sounding frustrated. Knowing him, he would be beating himself up over this later, so Selina decided to go easy on him. 

“It’s fine, Bruce. God knows you need the sleep. Plus, you make a very comfortable arm rest,” she said. He smiled faintly and made to stand. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” she asked sharply. He paused, and she could tell he was confused. Rolling her eyes, she clarified, “I know you’re low on sleep, Bruce, if you’re falling asleep during a movie on this couch. What would Alfred say if I let you drive home on a bike right now? He opened his mouth to protest but she shut him up with a glare— “don’t even start! Your bullshit stopped working on me a long time ago, Bat. I’ve got a bed in the other room, come on.” 

With that, Selina led him into the former loot-chamber-turned-emergency-bedroom. She’d splurged on the bed, for when she was really hurt and needed somewhere to lie low. A little rougher than truly necessary, she pushed him onto the bed and said, “Stay. I’ll be right back.” She stalked out of the room to turn off the lights and put away the wine and popcorn bowl. 

Bruce was a little surprised at Selina— honestly, when wasn’t he?— and so didn’t quite know what to do when she dragged him into her (kind of) bedroom and told him he was staying here tonight. It was, he noted, a nice bed, probably from downtown somewhere. He made a note to have Alfred buy her some nice Egyptian Cotton sheets as an apology. He yawned again, still thinking about Egyptian Cotton sheets. 

When Selina had finished cleaning up, she returned to her bedroom, herself quite tired, and saw that Bruce had managed to fall asleep… again. Sighing, she noted that at least he was kind of lying down this time, on a bed. Although, there was no way she’d be able to pull the covers over him. So, she pulled out a quilt from the trunk in front of the bed and laid it over him, then slipped under the covers herself. Then she turned off the lamp and silently wished him a good night. 

The next morning, Bruce opened his eyes to a ceiling that wasn’t his, with sunlight streaming through the room, and a warm body next to him. He glanced sideways and then remembered that he was still at Selina’s secondary hideout, and that he hadn’t texted Alfred that he was staying over. Selina stirred, and rolled over to face him. “Mm. Hi,” she said. 

“Good morning,” he said. 

She sat up, stretching. “I texted Alfred earlier. He’s expecting us back at the Manor for breakfast at eleven. It’s 9:40 right now. We have some time,” she said, smiling deviously. 

“Do we?” Bruce asked, sitting up.


	5. Movie Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wayne family movie night has just been reinstated, on Dick's insistence... and it's Jason's turn to pick a movie. He chooses "It." Can watching a clown horror movie really bring the family closer together? Bruce hopes so. 
> 
> Because it's finally time for an appearance by the Batfam, I know you've all been waiting. Hopefully it's fluffy enough. Dick, Jason, Tim, Stephanie, Cass, and Damian all make appearances, along with (of course) Alfred and Bruce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I do not own any of these characters, DC Comics does. Also, I've never actually seen "It" because I hate horror movies, but I used Google, so there may be some spoilers for the movie in this chapter, I don't actually know how accurate my mentions of the movie are.

It was once again movie night at Wayne Manor— it had just been reinstated, on Dick’s insistence, after a few months of chaos. More importantly, Jason was joining them, as he’d somehow remembered that it was his turn to pick out a movie… even though he’d never been to one before (he was still in the movie-picking rotation). Bruce suspected Alfred. But, he was just happy that his son was coming, even when Jason announced the movie they’d be watching was “It” and that he had chosen it “because the clown DIES, Bruce.” At that remark, Bruce had taken a deep breath and worked on ignoring the jibe from his second eldest. Patience was a virtue, he reminded himself, especially when one has a multitude of children. 

The night arrived, and the media room filled with the sounds of yelling as Bruce’s children argued over ‘the good seats,’ which were, as far as he could tell, away from Jason. He was informed by Alfred that some of them had already seen “It” with Jason and that he got very… animated at some parts of the movie; especially the scenes where the clown was beat up. Bruce swallowed his exasperation and said, “I’ll sit next to Jason, Dick, you get the ‘good spot,’ Cassandra, Stephanie, sit wherever you like, and somebody sit between Tim and Damian. I don’t want any arguing during this, or I’ll cancel movie night again, understand?” There was a grumbled ‘yes’ from everyone, and Bruce ignored Jason giving him a middle finger when he thought he wasn’t watching. Alfred retrieved the popcorn. 

Damian settled next to Dick, who threw an arm around his younger brother. Tim curled up on the other side, phone in hand. Stephanie was sitting on the ground below Cassandra, wrapped in a blanket. Jason was to Bruce’s left, a small island of space between them. Bruce ignored, again, the taught muscles in Jason’s crossed arms and the slight tapping of his left boot. Oh well, he didn’t have to be happy with the seating arrangement. Finally, once the popcorn had been passed around, Bruce stood up to shut off the lights and then started the movie. He saw Jason lean forward, watching intently. 

……………… 

Bruce snorted as the clown jumped out and danced around in a ‘creepy’ manner. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jason glance at him. Then, surprising him, his son muttered, “Oh, you think that’s ridiculous? Wait for the next part, it gets better.” Bruce turned back to the screen. The movie progressed, and the band of kids started formulating a plan. Bruce blinked, and noted the weight of another human being against him— Tim had fallen asleep, phone still grasped. Bruce grabbed it— noting that his son had been texting Superman’s clone— and set it on the coffee table. He carefully leaned forward and tapped Dick on the shoulder, gesturing to Tim. Dick nodded and handed him a throw pillow and an extra blanket from the pile Stephanie had gathered. Bruce propped Tim’s head up on the pillow and covered the two of them in the blanket. Unbeknownst to him, Jason had observed the whole thing coolly, out of the corner of his eye. Tim moved in his sleep so he was pressed against Bruce’s side. Bruce blinked again. 

The clown was now in a sewer, running. Bruce was watching through heavy-lidded eyes. Jason was leaning back, arms spread out behind him— almost touching the back of Bruce’s neck. He blinked again, and lost a few minutes. Jason leaned sideways and grabbed another pillow, putting it under Bruce’s head. By the time the movie ended, Stephanie, Cass, Tim, and Bruce had all fallen asleep. Damian scoffed as Tim let out a loud snore, and Jason snickered at the way Bruce was threatening to crush the younger boy by slowly slipping sideways on the couch. But when Dick gestured for him to help readjust the pair, he complied. Dick picked up Cassandra and when Stephanie stirred, Jason directed her to bed. When they returned, Damian was gone, and Tim was blinking awake, trapped next to Bruce. With some help from Dick— consisting of unraveling Tim from his straight-jacket of blankets— Jason was able to yank his replacement free from Batman. 

Unfortunately, this woke Bruce, who jerked upright. He looked around, seeing Dick, Tim, and Jason. “Did you get the rest of them to bed?” he asked, standing. Dick nodded, picking up Tim, with little protest from the sleepy boy. Jason stood awkwardly with his hands in his pockets. Bruce gave Dick a look, and he left the room, excusing himself by saying he needed to get Tim to bed. 

Bruce turned to Jason, and said after a moment, “Thank you for coming… it was a nice night. They needed that.” Jason nodded, not quite looking at him. Bruce shuffled his feet, unsure of what else he could say. Jason looked up at him, smirk on his face. 

“Yeah, yeah. I guess it was okay. But try not to fall asleep next time… old man. Night,” he said, waving as he left. 

“Good night, Jason,” Bruce replied, a small smile on his face. Maybe he’d have to plan more movie nights after all. A yawn interrupted the thought, and he went about putting the room back into some kind of order. A throat-clearing noise interrupted his movements. 

Alfred peaked his head into the room. “Master Bruce, I believe that can wait until the morning. We should all retire, it is getting late.” Bruce put down the pile of blankets he’d been attempting to fold and walked towards the door. “By the way,” Alfred said, “I do believe Master Jason quite enjoyed himself tonight. Well done, sir.” 

Bruce smiled, standing before the stairs. “Thanks, Alfred. I think we should plan on there being more movie nights. Maybe we can watch the original “It” next time. Good night.” 

“Good night, Sir,” Alfred said. 

As Bruce slipped into bed, he thought, today was a good day.


	6. Fairy Tales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce's leg is broken, so he's stuck at home. Tim is busy with W.E. stuff, Cass has broken bones, Barbra has the flu, Damian has pneumonia, Jason started a turf war, and Dick, Alfred, and Stephanie are barely holding things together.

A broken leg meant it was one of those rare times when Bruce wasn’t able to go out as Batman, much to his annoyance. Alfred had insisted that he take at least eight weeks off, if not longer (and he’d probably be harassed into taking more time off.) Right now, however, he could not afford the break, because much of the family was either busy or sick. Tim was dealing with the stockholders at W.E., Damian had a case of pneumonia, after stubbornly going out on patrol with what he had claimed was, “only a mild cold, Father. You have no need to trouble yourself over my condition.” Jason was busy with a turf war— he was trying to expand his territory yet again, and Black Mask was not having it. Cass also had broken bones; she’d fractured her wrist and broken a rib after a bad run-in with Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy a week and a half ago. Stephanie, therefore, was busy covering Cassandra’s patrol and her own, stubbornly refusing Bruce’s offer to devise a fairer shift schedule for everyone. Even Oracle was (mostly) down for the count— Barbara had a terrible case of the flu, and had threatened physical harm on anyone that disturbed her recovery with anything less than an emergency. Sometimes, Bruce really hated winter in Gotham. 

With all the on-going chaos, the manor would have fallen apart, except for the sheer willpower of one Alfred Pennyworth and the graciousness of one Richard Grayson. Thankfully, Bruce’s surrogate father and butler had not fallen ill or been injured and Dick was on leave from the Bludhaven PD. Essentially, it was him, Spoiler, and Batwoman watching out for Gotham, along with Red Hood, when Black Mask wasn’t giving him too much trouble to patrol other areas. Bruce, however, wasn’t about to let his son, or Stephanie, patrol without someone running the comms. He’d told Alfred to take care of Damian as the boy was far too stubborn to properly recover if left to his own devices. The butler also had his hands full caring for Cass and making sure Tim slept and ate. Somehow, he’d also had time to prepare some soup for Barbra. So, it was Batman himself who was running the Bat Cave tonight, albeit, a Batman who was dressed in loose sweatpants, a ratty t-shirt, and a robe. Next to the computer, Bruce had a steaming cup of coffee and his crutches; though he hated using them because of the way he had to hobble down the halls slowly. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 

Yawning, Bruce sat, and turned on his comm. “Nightwing, Spoiler, do you read me?” he asked. Bruce then turned to the live video coming from the two vigilante’s masks. Nightwing was swinging through downtown, adjacent to the diamond district. Spoiler was perched on a roof, tracking the sound of police sirens. 

“Loud and clear, B,” Nightwing said, landing from an elaborate flip. Bruce growled. 

“Careful. We can’t afford to have anyone else injured. We’re running too thin as it is,” he said. 

Stephanie cleared her throat. “Copy, B-man. What’s up with those sirens?” she asked. 

Bruce turned to the computer and looked at the alerts. “A silent alarm was triggered at a Denny’s. I don’t think it’s anyone big, but one of you should swing by anyway, if there’s nothing else going on,” he said. Spoiler laughed, swinging to a fire escape. 

“I got it, B. Is it the one on Fifth?” she asked. 

“Yes,” Bruce replied tersely, “be careful, even if it is just an inexperienced burglar.” 

“Gotcha,” Stephanie replied, “Spoiler over and out.” 

Suddenly the computer beeped and Bruce spun, taking another sip of coffee. “Nightwing, the CSI unit just cleared a murder scene. I need you to check it out. It’s a third-floor apartment on Sharp and Eighth” he ordered. 

Nightwing spun, and leapt onto the next roof. “Got it,” he replied. 

Patrol lasted until three a.m. and all parties were exhausted by the end of it. When there were only two (or three, if Batwoman was around) people out there, that meant more area for each person to cover, and legwork took energy. Thankfully, it had been a fairly quiet night, but still. Bruce was also exhausted, as he’d been running the comms. for the past few days, along with catching up on W.E. reports, and listening to updates about the latest JL activities from Clark. Also, his leg hurt and the only pain meds Alfred would give him were the ones that made him drowsy (because they worked, damnit). So when everyone signed off for the night, and Bruce was confident that Stephanie and Dick would make it home, he turned to the computer to start a message to Superman, requesting a report on the latest intergang activities; Jason had suspicions that they were providing Roman Sionis with weapons, for an unknown reason. He yawned again, and adjusted his robe. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 

Nightwing pulled into the cave and ripped off his mask, and ruffled his damp, sweaty hair. God, it had been a long night, and he’d almost forgotten how horrible Bruce got when he had to run comms. and there weren’t enough people out on patrol. Sighing, he started stretching, before the quiet hum of Stephanie’s electric bike caused him to look up from his splits and smile. She shook out her hair and put it up into a messy bun, sighing. She yawned and ran a tired hand over her face. “I don’t ever want to do that again,” she complained, slumping against Dick’s shoulder. He huffed a laugh. 

“Oh, don’t worry kiddo, you will. Bruce wasn’t even that bad tonight. Trust me,” Dick said, remembering worse times. Steph groaned before using his shoulder to push herself up. 

“I’m going to check in with B-man before I go up. C’mon,” she said, giving him a hand. 

Dick groaned. “Fine, fine, I’ll come with you. But we’re making this quick, okay? I want to go to bed,” he said. Steph grinned. 

“Same here,” she said. 

But, to their surprise, Bruce wasn’t waiting expectantly for them, typing intensely, or even talking to Clark about some JL matter or other. Instead, the man had his casted leg propped up on the small filing cabinet next to the computer, and he let out a deep breath. His robe was half-on, and Bruce’s hair and clothes were both rumpled. Dick was half-amused, half-exasperated to see that Bruce had gone barefoot down in the cold cave. He had a thing about only wearing one sock, and he didn’t want to buy socks to fit over casts, feeling that it looked stupid to have only one sock on. One hand hung limply from the armrest, and Bruce’s other hand held his comm. in his lap. Stephanie froze, and Dick remembered that not everyone in the family had actually seen this much of Bruce’s fallible human side before. 

He strode forward, grabbing Bruce’s crutches and the comm. out of his hand before placing a hand on the man’s shoulder and shaking. “Come on, Bruce, time for bed,” he said. Bruce sat up after the first shake and turned to look at Dick. 

“Is Stephanie back too?” he asked sleepily. Steph shared a look with Dick and smiled. 

“Yeah, I’m right here,” she said, stepping into Bruce’s view. He grunted, turning back to the computer. 

“Good,” he said. Nightwing gave her a look before he shoved Bruce’s chair a few inches away from the screen. Bruce glared at him for the interruption. 

“Come on, B. You and I both know that if you’re falling asleep at the computer, it’s time for bed. You should feel lucky that it was just Steph and I here tonight. What would Alfred say?” Dick asked, the threat clear in his voice. Bruce threw another glare at his eldest, but it was less heated this time. 

“Fine. Give me back my crutches,” he muttered. Stephanie tried not to snicker at how petulant he sounded. 

“I’m heading up. Good night, Dick, Bruce,” she said, excusing herself. Dick waved absently, helping Bruce up. Bruce grunted. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 

Twenty minutes later, Dick had finally gotten Bruce situated in bed and had given him another painkiller after some mild protests on Bruce’s part. Dick had not-so-subtly threatened to get Alfred if he didn’t comply. So Bruce had given in. Now he was asleep again, after demanding a report on patrol. _It was funny,_ Dick thought, as Bruce fell asleep during the report, _I guess post-mission reports are our version of a bedtime story._ He patted Bruce’s shoulder, and murmured, “Good night, Dad” before retiring to his own room to get some sleep.


	7. Toyman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce is in Metropolis, helping the JL deal with Toyman when things go wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruce has a potty-mouth in this, although, can you blame him?

_Toyman is a fucking asshole,_ Bruce thought tiredly, as he dodged another Jack-in-the-Box bomb. The thing went off behind him, showering Batman in dust and rubble, and damaging the storefront where it had landed. Somewhere in the distance, Batman heard another going off, and the shattering of glass, a car alarm, and another boom. This was not the Justice League’s day. 

Suddenly, a distinctly high-pitched whirring caught his attention, and Bruce grappled out of the way as a miniature plane dropped more ‘toy’ soldiers out. The robots fell to the ground, and despite their smaller stature, they packed one hell of a punch; their bayonets had enough wattage to knock a person unconscious, as Flash had found out (for a few minutes, anyway) and the ammunition they shot was teargas. Bruce growled, and threw a small explosive pellet at the bunch to stop them, but it was too late. One had already released its teargas and Bruce’s eyes streamed, even behind the cowl’s lens. _Perhaps he’d have to steal Toyman’s formula, adapt it for his own use._

Unfortunately, Bruce was too busy to hear Superman’s shout of “Batman!” and so did not notice the encroaching tank, until he suddenly felt a sharp stab of pain in his side, by his stomach. 

Bruce looked down, saw the tank, saw the knife sticking out of his side, felt a sudden trickle of wetness, and said, “Fuck.” Shakily, he fumbled for another explosive pellet before realizing that he’d used them all. 

“Motherfucker,” Bruce growled, as he’d been _sure_ he’d packed enough to deal with Toyman. He withdrew a bat-a-rang and threw it at the tank, where it short-circuited the device. Bruce stumbled after his first step, noting that the stabbing, throbbing pain that caused his vision to white out for a moment could not be a good sign. He huffed, cursing again when he felt blood start to pool in his left boot. Batman reached the alley, and leaned against the wall behind a dumpster, trying to ignore how weak his knees felt. Bruce twisted a little to visually inspect the damage— he didn’t want to take the knife out if one of his organs had been hit. But this movement caused his stomach to churn, and his diaphragm’s contractions caused his vision to white out again. 

Bruce’s legs decided to be helpful at this point, and gave out. He slid down the wall and landed on the ground with a thump. “Shit!” he hissed, as he _felt_ the knife move, and yep, that was his kidney. Suddenly, he felt more blood not just oozing, but rushing out and he felt everything swirling and growing fuzzy. As Batman slumped sideways, leaving a blood-trail on the wall and concrete beneath him, he had just enough awareness to say, “Super—” before he blacked out. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ 

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Groaning, Bruce tried to sit up as soon as his hazy vision had adjusted to the light. But, upon even sitting up a few inches, a wave of pain caused the heart monitor to increase sharply for a second. “Fuucck,” he growled. 

Someone cleared their throat, and Bruce flushed; he didn’t usually curse that much in front of the JL, as it didn’t look professional. Thankfully though, it was only Clark. Bruce went to rub his eyes, surprised when he could. That meant they’d taken off his mask. He scowled at the ceiling, ignoring his visitor. Clark appeared in his vision, and asked, “Do you need your pillows fluffed?” 

Huffing, Bruce replied, “Fine.” Clark, repressing a smile, put one hand on Bruce’s back, and another under his bicep, and helped him sit up— gently, and very, very slowly. Bruce squeezed his eyes tight for a second, and was distantly pleased to note that the heart monitor only beeped shrilly for a second or two before it evened out. Clark released his grip, and Bruce let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. 

He opened his eyes to see that Clark had dragged a chair to his bedside and was looking at him. “Well, J’ohn says that, thankfully, there wasn’t any permanent damage to your kidneys other than some light scarring. But, he says, he wants you to rest for two weeks at least,” Clark said. Bruce gripped the sheets around him, seething. _Two weeks, who was J’ohn to tell him Batman would be out of commission for two goddamned weeks?_

Clark cleared his throat again and Bruce sighed. “What?” he snapped. 

Very clearly, Bruce saw the frustration, and anger, flash in Superman’s eyes before he swallowed it, and a calmer expression appeared on his face. Bruce noted, guiltily, that he didn’t deserve a friend as decent, as _good_ as Clark Kent. “How are you feeling?” Clark asked. 

Bruce pushed down the wave of annoyance he felt at that question, reminding himself to be nice to Clark, and said, “Like I just got stabbed. I fucking hate Toyman.” Clark’s eyes widened at the curse, but he didn’t say anything for a moment. Bruce looked up, and saw that his friend was fidgeting with his cape. “Out with it,” Bruce growled. Superman startled, looking up at him with wide eyes. 

“It was close, this time…” he said, quietly, and Bruce took a moment to process what he meant, and _oh_ , “I almost didn’t hear you over all the fighting, with how weak your voice was. And when I got there— the blood, there was so much— and I had to call J’ohn for a teleport, and I was worried—” Surprising himself, Bruce lay a hand on Superman’s arm. 

“Hey,” he said, “it’s okay, Clark. I’m still here. I would have been pretty pissed if you’d let goddam Toyman get me, though.” Clark blinked at his surprisingly sappy words, and grinned. 

“Don’t worry, I’d have made sure the story matched your reputation,” he said. But after, the humor died, and he was serious. Bruce was going to say something, but yawned. Clark looked up. 

“I should probably let you rest,” he said reluctantly. 

Bruce rolled his eyes at his moping, and waited until Superman was almost out the door before growling, adding a tone of extreme reluctance into his voice, “You can stay if you want, Clark.” Clark froze, and to his benefit, didn’t super speed over, but returned at a normal, even slow, pace. Bruce settled against his pillows, and pulled the blanket over his shoulders. He huffed a little as Clark leaned over to turn off the light, and muttered, “Boy scout.” 

Clark chuckled quietly. “Sleep well, Bruce,” he said. Bruce shut his eyes, for once not minding the fact that his friend’s eyes were watching.


	8. Mild Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce has a mild cold and is, for once, not downplaying anything; but still, mild or not, having a cold and being Batman is exhausting.

Bruce attempted to breathe through his nose, only to be met with a whistling squeaking sound, and a slightly lightheaded feeling from the lack of oxygen. He acknowledged clinically that he was not feeling great right now— it wasn’t enough to stop Batman, but still… The gentle pounding in his head, coupled with slightly warm feeling through his cheeks, a stuffed nose, and warm tired eyeballs meant Bruce felt _fatigued._ Furthermore, the occasional feverish warmth, along with the pounding added a slightly woozy filter to everything. It didn’t help either that he’d given himself minimal time to recover; all Bruce had done was eat more vitamin C and go to bed slightly earlier (ten minutes, to be exact). 

But despite not feeling great, admittedly, this was only a minor cold, and Bruce had far too much to do, and honestly, he felt almost silly for the grouchiness he felt over his discomfort. He _had_ had far worse, and been in much worse pain before, so why was a little sickness able to make him feel so bad? As another wave of pounding began— right above his left eyebrow— he had to blink slowly to clear away the grogginess, and sighed as he had to grab another tissue. He stared at the computer in front of him, blinking again, _what had he been doing, again?_ Right, Bruce remembered, chastising himself a little for becoming distracted, he was reading Lucius’ latest Quarterly Finance Report that he needed to approve of before it was sent out to the investors. 

Bruce took a breath through his mouth, annoyed at how _loud_ it was, breathing through one’s mouth. He turned back to the report on the screen, ignoring his desire to let his eyes close— though it felt like someone had replaced his eyeballs with warm cheese, with how they felt squishy and too hot against his eyelids. He pressed one palm to the middle of his forehead and shut his eyes for a second, reveling in how the pressure helped his headache and how the darkness soothed his eyes a little. With a jerk, Bruce realized he’d fallen asleep for a second, and growled. He blinked against increasingly heavy eyelids, and stood from the chair, stretching. A large glass of water sounded perfect, right now. 

After he’d drunk a couple glasses of water, he felt better— somewhat. Bruce was able to power through the rest of the report, and even answered a couple more emails before the screen got too blurry— his eyes going hot and fuzzy no matter how he blinked. Bruce huffed, and was annoyed as it squeaked. A glance at his watch revealed that it was three thirty p.m., and Bruce figured he could head home. As he walked into his private elevator, he repressed the urge to press his forehead against the cool glass of the mirrors; he half-feared he’d fall asleep there if he did. Bruce waved at his secretary, and unlocked the car, half-grateful Alfred was busy getting the regular car fixed, half-annoyed he had to drive, as it meant he couldn’t shut his eyes for the half hour it took to get home. After the lightheaded feeling grew, Bruce took a whistling breath through his mouth, realizing he’d forgotten to breathe. Ugh. This was _wonderful._

Thankfully, Gotham traffic decided to be merciful, and Bruce’s drive was only twenty minutes instead of the usual thirty, and he jerked the car to a stop, parked, and tore off his jacket. He made a detour to the kitchen to grab a glass of water, almost chugging it awkwardly as he headed upstairs to change into something more comfortable. Once he was upstairs, he decided that an aspirin for the headache would be nice, as would more water. Bruce swallowed two, and the remaining water. He sat on the bed to pull off his shoes, and blinked heavily, head slightly spinning. God, he was tired. He closed his burning eyes for a moment, forgetting his shoes, and immediately felt as if an anchor had been tied around his mind as he was dragged into the dark. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

Bruce blinked in confusion. Something had woken him up, and he realized with a small shock, he’d fallen asleep in his suit— Alfred was sure to be mad about that— with… with one shoe off. Furthermore, he was in an awkward position, on top of the covers, almost falling off one side of the bed, suit jacket in a crumpled pile to the side of his head. He blinked again, and acknowledged that the… nap… had helped a little. Bruce looked up and saw that it was Alfred who’d woken him, as the man was standing in the doorway, levelling a look at Bruce. “Master Bruce, what have I said about leaving your suits around like this?” he scolded. 

Bruce ran a hand through his extremely mussy hair. “Sorry, Alfred, I’d meant to hang it up… but I fell asleep,” he admitted sheepishly, standing. Alfred arched a brow at this, but still looked slightly displeased. 

“Ah. Would we be nursing a cold, perhaps?” Alfred said. Bruce sighed, or rather, rattled. 

“Yes. I suppose it’d have been better to just tell you, seeing as you’ve found me out anyway,” Bruce said half-tiredly, half-jokingly. Alfred quirked a brow, one corner of his mouth barely turning up. 

“So it seems he finally learns something,” Alfred teased, “although I suppose it’d be too much to hope for that you may skip patrol tonight, Master Bruce.” Bruce smiled tiredly at his foster-father. 

“I haven’t learned everything yet,” he said. Alfred sighed, somehow managing to take Bruce’s suit jacket out to be pressed too as he left the room. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

Honestly, Bruce tried to heed Alfred’s words, albeit in his own way. He was _going to_ cut patrol short, he really was… except, it didn’t work out that way. The bat signal flickered on right about when Bruce had almost decided that it was quiet enough for him to go home; _and ha, wouldn’t Alfred be pleased when Bruce surprised him by being home early?_ Except, the damn signal was on… and Bruce just couldn’t ignore it, he couldn’t. If that made him like a moth, oh well. It was his job, after all, to deal with whatever crap Gotham came up with, so he went. Too bad, he’d been looking forward to rising above Alfred’s expectations, for once. 

Jim was there, coffee slowly steaming away in his hand. He’d glanced at his watch before Bruce was there, and Bruce felt a slight pang of annoyance— _sure, maybe he’d been slower tonight, but when was the last time he’d missed the bat signal?_ He landed, trying hard to get enough oxygen without opening his mouth too wide; cold meds could only do so much, and instantly de-clogging a nose was beyond their capabilities, unfortunately. “Yes, Commissioner?” Bruce growled. Jim quirked an eyebrow, and Batman chastised himself for his tone. _Too impatient, shouldn’t let it show._ He snapped to attention as Gordon was talking. 

“There’s been a breakout from Black Gate’s psychiatric ward; nobody too dangerous, but—” 

“But nobody you want to take a chance with,” Bruce supplied tiredly. At least it wasn’t Arkham. Gordon looked surprised again, and Batman half-heartedly chastised himself for it. But if Jim really was concerned by Batman’s uncharacteristic behavior, he ignored it. 

“You said it. I’ve got a file on who the suspected escapees are, but we haven’t got a final count on how many are missing yet. If you could go investigate, maybe see who broke these men out—” 

“I’ll do it,” Bruce said, taking the file from Gordon’s mutely extended hand. Crap, he’d screwed up again. Oh well. Batman was gruff to everybody. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

Bruce’s plan to wrap up early, he later admitted, had gone to hell. It was half past two by the time he’d finished at Black Gate, and had followed as much police scanner activity about the escapees as he could, hoping, maybe, to find some. No such luck. So now, not only was he expecting a disappointed Alfred, he still felt sick, and dissatisfied by his lack of progress. It was not a great night. 

He quickly bypassed Alfred, who was only too happy to let him go when Bruce honestly admitted he just wanted to go to bed. The hot shower felt great, and Bruce was about dead on his feet after. Putting on fresh clothes and brushing his teeth felt monumental. He fell into bed and within one breath, had fallen asleep. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

The next day, Bruce thought he felt better, until he once again found himself almost drifting off in his office mid-afternoon. Sighing, he remembered that he had monitor duty tonight. But at least he’d be sitting down, and the activity wouldn’t be as strenuous as patrol, if nothing came up. Bruce took a few aspirin once he’d gotten home, and told Alfred as he headed down to the cave to change that he’d be at the Watchtower tonight. Alfred said nothing, and the silence spoke volumes. 

When the time came, Bruce teleported up to the Watchtower, and staggered a step, feeling woozier than usual— poor health always made teleporting more difficult. Luckily, there was no one to see it, and Bruce could review the security camera footage later and delete any awkward moments. He shook off the feeling and headed to the monitor room. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

Clark was already there and looked up with a smile as Bruce entered the room. “Hello, Batman. How are you?” he asked politely. _Sick,_ Bruce thought. 

But he answered, “Fine. And you?” Clark’s smile grew, and Bruce thought absently, _how can he smile that much. Ridiculous._ But Clark was oblivious to Bruce’s mood. 

“Oh, I’m good. It’s been a slow week in Metropolis, and I’m glad that if I have to do monitor duty, it’s with you, and not Flash,” he replied. There was a beat of silence. 

“Hm,” Bruce acknowledged, sitting. _God, his eyes were feeling fried already_. This would be a long night. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

Monitor duty wrapped up, and not a moment too soon. Clark yawned, and said, “Good night, B. See you next meeting.” Bruce absently waved, concentrating on the Earth below them— _what continent was that, rotating beneath them?_ — because if he didn’t, the throbbing in his head, along with his melting eyeballs, would drive him mad. Finally, Hal showed up, ten minutes late, and Bruce barely contained himself from snarling. Even for Jordan, that would be too much. 

Bruce stalked off, but hesitated in the hall. Nope, he did not feel like dealing with the teleporter right now, or, truth be told, with Alfred. The man was sure to lecture him. So Bruce decided to stay up here. He reached his quarters, but found that somehow, he’d run out of aspirin, so he made a trip to the infirmary, sure they’d have some. 

He turned on the lights and bumped into the wall after overestimating his eyes' ability to adjust. With a curse, Bruce shut most of them off again. He found the pills he was looking for, and left. But, half way back to his room, Bruce paused, blinking sleepily. He realized he was thirsty, and simultaneously, that he didn’t have any glasses in his room. Sighing, Bruce once again took a detour, feeling like somebody had pumped lead into his muscles. 

He didn’t even bother turning on the lights in the small kitchen that was founders-only. He grabbed a large bottled water from the fridge, gratefully sinking into a chair. He pressed it against his eyes for a moment before cracking the seal and chugging about a quarter of it. Sighing again, Bruce looked out at the dark, empty kitchen, reveling in the feeling of being _almost okay._ Without his notice, his eyes slipped shut. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

Clark, though he wanted to sleep, had too much work to catch up on to do what he desired. So he’d been pleased when inspiration struck and the article he’d been working on practically finished itself. As a reward, he decided that he’d fix himself a snack before going to bed. He floated through the halls, observing pleasantly, how peaceful the Watchtower was right now. If he hummed a little on the way to the kitchen, well, there was no one to hear. 

Clark reached the kitchen, and flicked on the light, nearly jumping out of his skin when he saw that he wasn’t alone. Bruce was slumped at the small table, chest rising slowly and deeply, asleep. But, Clark’s brow furrowed, there was something off. Yes, Bruce was squeaking, and was definitely congested. _He’s sick,_ Clark thought, _guess my midnight snack will have to wait._ Clark reached a hand out and gently shook Bruce’s shoulder. The man stirred before blinking open his eyes slowly into a narrow squint. 

“Hn. Clark?” he said dazedly. Then he seemed to become more alert and sank back into the chair with a groan. “I can’t believe I fell asleep ‘ere,” he said tiredly. Clark smiled in amusement. Bruce seemed to be on the verge of nodding off again, so Clark shook his shoulder again, this time a bit more concerned. 

“You okay?” he asked. Bruce grunted, and made to stand. 

“Yeah, just a cold,” he said. When he stumbled a little on his first step, Clark placed Bruce’s arm around his shoulder. 

“Have you been resting at all?” he asked sternly. Bruce gave him a sleepy glare. 

“Tried. There was… was a breakout f’rm Black Gate,” he said, yawning. Clark sighed. 

They managed to get back to Bruce’s room, and now the man was really tired, practically deadweight against Clark’s side. Clark put the lights on dim and shut the door. Then he turned to Bruce, who was looking through half-closed eyes at him. Clark approached Bruce, who seemed to realized what Clark was planning to do, because he pulled off his cowl and let it fall to the floor with a clunk. Clark asked, “ Can you raise your arms for me, Bruce?” For once the Gotham Bat obliged without argument. Clark found the hidden latches and zipper in the suit and pulled it over Batman, setting it on the ground. 

Bruce sat heavily on his bed, managing to get one boot off by himself before Clark grabbed it from him and set it with the rest of the Batsuit. Bruce got his other boot off too, and Clark helped with the armor-plated bottoms of the suit. Bruce yawned once, blinking heavily. “Bed,” Clark determined, pulling the covers back. Bruce didn’t seem opposed to this, but he stopped Clark from essentially tucking him in. 

“Need to put away th’ suit,” he grunted. Clark held him down gently. 

“I’ll do it, you get some sleep,” he said. Bruce nodded once, and rolled over, dragging the blankets over him. As Clark was super-speeding the suit away into the closet, he heard Bruce start to breathe more deeply— albeit, still congested. He shut the closet silently, and hovered a few inches off the ground. 

When Clark reached the door and was about to leave, Bruce asked, slightly muffled by the blanket, “Clark?” 

Clark paused. “Yes?” he asked, hesitantly. 

“Thanks,” Bruce said. Clark smiled, shutting off the lights and closing the door as he left his friend’s room.


	9. AU Torture Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce has just returned from an alternate universe with an evil Clark and Diana-- why does this keep happening to him?!-- and is tired.

Once again, Batman had ended up in an alternate universe. Bruce really didn’t know how or why this kept happening to him, but it did; somehow, it was always an alternate universe where Clark or Diana or— worse— _both_ were evil too. In this case, it was both. So Bruce had found himself tied up, with Diana’s lasso wrapped around him so he looked somewhat like a bizarre gothic Christmas ornament, what with the black and golden, glowing rope around him. 

As far as torture went, it was not nearly as bad as other types Batman had endured, but it was exhausting in a way being tortured had not been in a long time— for one, it was his _friends_ torturing him (even if they were alternate, evil versions) and two, he really, really could not give them the information they wanted; they wanted to know how the Watchtower worked because they wanted to invade _his_ universe. Go figure. So when Batman was, inevitably, rescued— something he grumbled at— he was tired. But not particularly injured. 

Still, he’d ended up with a couple of fairly deep lacerations and one broken wrist, so Diana and Clark had made him spend the night in the infirmary to recover, not that he really needed it, mind you. But, occasionally, Bruce did have to admit, it was nice to have somebody watching his back, and it was always at least a bit harrowing to suddenly have people wearing his friends’ faces attacking him. Bruce did not put up as much of a fight as he could have about staying in the medical bay for this reason. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

Once he was safely through the time warp, and the portal had closed, Diana had hugged him, and Clark had hugged the both of them until Bruce grumbled at the fact that their feet had left the ground. Chuckling sheepishly, Clark had set them down and corralled Bruce into the med bay where he’d pried information out of him. Bruce, usually not reluctant to share field data, was always reluctant to recount his experiences with torture, especially so when it was an alternate of Clark or Diana who’d done the torturing. 

Primarily this was because it reminded his two _invulnerable_ colleagues that he was, in fact, human. Secondly, Clark got huffy and Diana angry whenever it was their alternate who had tortured Bruce; for some reason, they felt embarrassed and ashamed at the actions of their alternates, as if they were in control of them. Logically, this was nonsense and Bruce knew the difference between an alternate and his friends; Clark was always _cold_ and Diana a sinister brute, when they were evil alternates. Not like his friends. Not at all. Yet, occasionally, if they’d treated him particularly badly, he’d struggle, just a little, for a while around them. This had particularly been the case after the first time Bruce had been sucked into an alternate dimension— after, he’d been a bit of a mess, and despite his best efforts, his heart had beaten a bit faster around Clark for about a week, before his brain regained control over his fallible body. Clark still hadn’t forgotten. 

But this time, nothing so egregious had been done to him, so Bruce was just a little tired and a little hurt. After changing from the suit, and allowing J’ohn to check his wounds, Bruce had, grumbling slightly, allowed Clark and Diana to visit him. Clark had had that wide-eyed puppy dog look and Diana’s face was a picture of cool serenity, even if she did put a slight dent in a few pieces of furniture as Bruce told them (an edited version) of what had occurred. Bruce’s body felt heavy, and the burns from the lasso itched (not that Diana or Clark needed to know about this) so he allowed himself to rest slightly against the hospital-style bed; these were far more comfortable, however. 

At some point, Bruce had begun to lose Clark’s words, and whatever story he’d been telling (probably about what had happened here when Bruce had gone missing) became segmented as Bruce began falling asleep. Eventually, he let out one deep breath and his head drooped forward. Diana interrupted Clark and the pair managed to get him into bed. Neither felt like leaving and so they too, eventually, succumbed to sleep. In the morning, Bruce awoke to a weight on his arm; it was Diana’s head. Clark had his feet resting on the foot of Bruce’s bed and he was snoring slightly. Bruce snorted, but was, secretly, not displeased with the situation.


	10. Coffee Zombie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As we all know, Batman runs on caffeine. But what happens when caffeine is combined with too-little-sleep-for-too-often? A crash. Or, Bruce is a living disaster, with no sleep schedule, too much stuff to do and too little time to do it, so he relies on coffee, until one day it isn't enough. 
> 
> As Clark puts it:
> 
> Angry Bat= (mug size x smell of caffeine + # refills) + increased news coverage of crime in Gotham

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I relate to being overdependent on coffee a little too much; I love it, but I also _have_ to have it, you know? Oh well...

Caffeine is an amazing substance. Caffeine is an amazing substance, and is incredibly addictive; waking up just doesn’t happen _quite_ as efficiently without it once one has become a habitual user. Coffee is a marvelous drink as it is a way to get caffeine in a form that tastes good. But, there are limits to what it can do. If, for example, one has not slept in two days, caffeine will do very little to help that person, or it may do more harm than good. If one was a certain bat, then caffeine had to be consumed by the _gallon_ to have any effect at all. Given all this, it was safe to say that Batman was at least 70% coffee and Bruce Wayne was closer to 85%. 

Clark liked coffee. Clark liked the taste of (sugary) coffee. But he didn’t get much use from caffeine itself— that wasn’t why he drank coffee. In fact, caffeine had very little effect on him, something he was both thankful for and annoyed at; he’d seen ‘coffee zombies’ enough times at the café by the office to be grateful, and had lost enough sleep over the years to yearn for a type of Kryptonian caffeine. Maybe he’d have to ask Bruce about developing something, someday. So yeah, he liked coffee, but he didn’t quite get the hype about it. 

As he got to know Bruce Wayne, _Bruce_ , better, Clark noticed a pattern; he couldn’t help it, he was a reporter, and used to sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. Bruce’s caffeine intake was unusually high, but not so much so that it would cause suspicion. But, at certain times, it went _up_. During those times, Clark was more likely to be barked at, glared at, argued with, muttered about, insulted, and disagreed with at league meetings (or in general). Additionally, theses uptakes in caffeine consumption coincided with increased criminal activity, or one important event (say, an Arkham riot or Joker activity). Clark developed a sort of a ‘formula:’ mug size x smell of caffeine + increased news coverage of crime in Gotham = angry bat. Bruce, he also noticed, had _favorite_ mugs. He’d never admit it, but when things got really bad, and Clark feared the Bat would fall over at any moment, he’d have the big, ashy-white mug, or when it was a string of unsolved murders, the squatter but wider black mug, or when it was Catwoman, a rusty red mug, medium sized. Clark factored this into his equation, along with the number of refills Bruce had. So now his formula for ‘angry bat’ calculations was: (mug size x smell of caffeine + # refills) + increased news coverage of crime in Gotham. It was a formula that worked too, and he’d jokingly shared it with Diana one day, who’d at first looked at him like he’d turned yellow or purple or green. But then, one day, he’d seen her running the calculations in her head and he stared at her until she looked up, a little arch in one brow, and nodded slightly at him. _He was right_. So now both of them knew how to calculate for ‘angry bat.’ 

The news coverage of crime in Gotham was not that high, but the ashy-white mug was out, and Bruce had had two cups of coffee already. Clark was a little puzzled, but wasn’t that concerned, as Bruce wasn’t entirely unreasonable at the league meeting. Perhaps Clark would just have to add another level of classification into his system. He saw Diana give him a raised eyebrow and he shrugged. She turned back to J’ohn’s presentation. Clark let it slip from his mind. 

… 

Later that week, Bruce Wayne was in Metropolis for the annual overview of _Daily Planet_ affairs, and for a charity gala for the Metropolis Art Museum, co-hosted by Wayne Enterprises and Luthercorp. Clark also knew he was there to help track down the importation of synthetic kryptonite, suspected to be happening out of the same ports that were shipping in artifacts for the Museum’s gala. Go figure. There were, unfortunately, whispers that the Joker was interested in becoming involved in this scheme; or at least Harley Quinn was. She’d been spotted in Metropolis a week ago and nobody had figured out why. 

So, Bruce had been coming by Clark’s apartment at the end of the day, looking slightly more rumpled than usual, with his laptop, papers, and bat-research-gear in hand. Today, his suit jacket was unbuttoned even before Clark answered the door, his hair was a bit ruffled, and his tie already loosened. Clark opened the door, raising one eyebrow momentarily, before stepping aside. Bruce sighed, and barreled into the apartment. Clark shut the door curiously. Bruce removed his shoes, set down his research materials by the couch, and tugged off his jacket and tie, laying them on a chair by Clark’s table. He deftly undid his cufflinks and set them in the suit jacket’s pocket. “Long day?” Clark asked. Bruce, already sitting on his couch, laptop open, didn’t look up. 

“Hm,” he agreed, rubbing his eyes a second. 

Clark paused by the kitchen entryway. “Want anything?” he asked. 

There was a pause in the typing. “Coffee,” Bruce said, “in as big a mug as possible. Please.” 

Clark raised an eyebrow, already beginning calculations. 

… 

A few hours later, Bruce had finished two cups of coffee and had made significant progress in the case. He’d come there, today specifically, to inform Clark about some information he’d gotten last night. It had led him down a new path of research, which was proving promising. Clark was working on research of his own, and was finding some things— not as much as Bruce, but still, every now and again Bruce would get that appreciative look in his eye, telling Clark that he’d told his friend a nugget of information that his big brain had already processed in ways Clark never would understand. So, with this progress behind them, Clark suggested, gently, that maybe it was time for a break, and would Bruce mind Chinese take-out? The answer was a grudging, “Fine, Clark, if you say so,” and “no.” Clark cleared a spot on the small coffee table for the food and called in an order. Bruce was already reaching for his wallet, but Clark waved him away— just this once, he’d like to buy Bruce food. Bruce raised a brow but didn’t say anything. 

As Clark was finishing the order, Bruce disappeared somewhere and returned with… another cup of coffee. Clark frowned at him and Bruce glared back. Clark gave his friend another once-over and noted, jarringly, the blue shadows under his eyes. “How many cups of coffee have you had?” Clark questioned. 

Bruce, setting down his mug, glared. “Only three,” he said neutrally. 

“Three!” Clark exclaimed. Bruce rolled his eyes, huffing. 

“Three _weak_ cups, Clark. There’s a difference between a good espresso and _Folger’s_ ,” he said. 

“Hey!” Clark said, who happened to have grown up with _Folger’s_ ; Pa had always drunk it. Bruce gave him a level look. 

“Don’t say it’s not true, nostalgia be damned,” he said. 

Clark was about to retort when his doorbell rang. He settled for shooting a _look_ at Bruce and went to answer it. 

… 

They ate the Chinese food, which was actually better than usual, and went back to work. Or, at least Clark did. Bruce seemed to be alternating between muttering things under his breath (which Clark could _hear_ but had learned to ignore after the first couple of times he’d asked ‘what’ and Bruce had finally tersely explained that he was thinking aloud) and staring off into space, or at Clark’s ceiling. Occasionally, yes, he’d type something frantically onto his laptop, but for the most part, Clark wasn’t sure _what_ he was doing. And then, occasionally, he’d forget his ‘I am Batman, I am the night, I do not feel discomfort, pain, or emotions’ act and rub at his eyes, or roll his shoulders. And Clark realized, he was tired and trying to stay focused even when his brain was trying to run off, skipping. Clark wondered how much (or rather, how little) sleep Bruce was running on, exactly. But he didn’t say anything, and, despite the unnatural balance that was established right now, Clark _had_ run the calculations and they added up to a dangerously angry bat. Clark just wasn’t sure why the sum, er, Bruce, wasn’t acting as usual. 

About 45 minutes after dinner, Clark first stated noticing it. The caffeine had backfired. Bruce was nodding off. The closest he came to falling asleep— or maybe, he did, for a moment— was when his head dropped forward and the pile of papers, notebook, and laptop came dangerously close to tumbling to the floor. But Bruce seemed to catch himself, blinking rapidly for a moment, mouth pursed, and went back to typing. Clark courteously ignored it, although he had been half-leaning out of his seat a moment earlier, ready to catch said endangered pile of things. After that, Clark kept an eye out, but mostly went back to his work. 

It wasn’t until later that he noticed that Bruce had _actually_ fallen asleep. Abruptly, he looked up from what he was typing and realized it was _too_ quiet. He’d looked over and there was Bruce, head uncomfortably resting on the stack of notebooks and papers, which had somehow become nestled in the crook of the couch, feet threatening to pull the rest of him to the floor, breathing deeply. Clark almost snorted. He looked like a college student who had left the mid-term paper to the day before and had then gotten stuck in the library. Clark hovered over to his bedroom closet and retrieved an extra pillow and blanket. He set them on the chair he’d been sitting in back in the living room. Then came the more difficult part: moving Bruce’s stuff. 

Clark managed to sort-of poke Bruce away from the notebooks-turned-makeshift-pillow, and removed his pen from his pocket without waking him. But when he went to remove laptop from where it’d gotten lodged under Bruce’s ribs, the man jolted awake, half-reaching for Clark’s wrist before he blinked open his eyes fully and saw it was just Clark. He perched himself up on one arm and rubbed his eyes with another. “What time is it?” he asked. 

Clark firmly set down the laptop, and said, “11:30.” Bruce blinked and pushed himself upright. He yawned once, before blinking again. 

“I should go,” he said. Clark sighed, having expected this. 

“No, it’s fine if you stay the night here. You’ve been falling asleep for at least three hours, Bruce. I almost had to rescue your laptop a couple of times. I’m worried about you,” Clark said. 

Bruce shot him a glare, but its effect was muted by the sleep lines on the right half of his face and by his squinty, slightly-puffy eyes. “I’m fine,” he muttered. 

Clark glared, then growled, “Sure. Sure you are,” then sighing, he continued more patiently, “look, you’re already here, and it’s going to take a long enough time to get home anyways, so even if you did leave now, you wouldn’t get out until much later, and most crime would have died down for the night anyways. Besides, I have a pillow right here, and a blanket. And I know that’s a comfortable couch.” 

He waited in the silence as Bruce seemed to think about his words. Clark had to keep the smile from his face as he saw Bruce look consideringly at the pillow. He must have been very, very tired for Clark’s half-assed argument to work on him. “Fine,” he finally said briskly, already moving to lay down again, “give it here.” He held out a hand and Clark passed him the pillow and set the blanket down on the coffee table. 

He saw Bruce had already put his head down on the pillow and was in the process of pulling the blanket over himself before Clark had even turned out the lights. “Good night,” he said. But got no answer. Clark went to get ready for bed himself. 

... 

It wasn’t until mid-morning the next day that Bruce even began stirring. Clark walked in around eight thirty to check on him (it was Saturday) and he was still dead to the world; hair a mess, arm propping up head, on his side, blanket tangled around him. Later, around 10:30, Bruce began to stir a little. He shifted under the blankets more, as if trying to escape the light. This lasted for another half-hour or so while Clark was finishing breakfast and drinking the last of his coffee. Finally, Bruce blinked, and sat up slowly, rubbing his face. Clark suppressed a chuckle at how spiky his hair was. He looked very groggy, and squinted at Clark. 

“Welcome back,” Clark sassed, unable to help himself. Bruce sighed under his breath, not even bothering to throw a salvo back. 

“What time is it?” he demanded, still sounding half-asleep. 

“Eleven,” Clark informed him. 

“Mm,” Bruce said, finally standing. 

“I made you coffee; unfortunately, you’re on your own for breakfast. I trust you not to make anything too complicated, I don’t need my apartment burning down,” Clark called as Bruce had already made his way to the kitchen. 

“Hmph. That was one time,” he mumbled back, although it was more alert than earlier. A few minutes later, he returned with the cup of coffee and a few pieces of toast. He took a sip and then set down the mug and plate across from Clark at the table. 

“I can’t believe I actually fell for an argument like ‘it’s too late for there to be any crime and my couch is comfy.’ Remember that, Clark, because it’s not happening again,” Bruce grumbled. Clark laughed. 

“Oh, I will, but not just for that reason!” he replied humorously. Bruce glared.


	11. Movie Night Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set early in the league, when it's just Wally, Diana, Victor, Clark, Hal, and Batman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never actually seen the movie _Die Hard_.

Bruce was only there under the pretext of there being a league meeting. But then, when he’d arrived, nobody had been in the meeting room. This should have immediately set off warning bells, but Bruce had merely been puzzled. It was only when Superman came to get him that Bruce realized what had happened. They’d pulled one over on him. Clark was there to stop him from leaving, and damn him, it had worked. Bruce had decided to stay for movie night— this was back when Dick was a new robin, and Bruce was still soft enough to be persuaded to stay for things like movie nights. 

Anyway. He’d grumbled and said, “Don’t do this again” in a way that left no room for argument. Bruce normally would have turned around and walked away but he was tired. A dangerous part of him whispered that he was already here and it would take too much effort to teleport home, get out of the suit, and then go to bed. He might as well stay; even Batman had to admit that some team bonding wasn’t a bad thing. So Bruce followed Clark into the ‘living room’ where there were three leather couches and a coffee table. Wally had brought out his small tv and a DVD player. When he saw Clark and Bruce he smiled and said, “Hey! Bats, glad to see you made it. We’re just about to start _Die Hard_ to settle the argument about whether it’s a Christmas movie or not— spoiler, it IS!” Hal munched aggressively on some popcorn and Cyborg sighed. Diana merely looked puzzled. 

Bruce took in the scene and wondered if it was too late to make a run for it. Clark turned to him and said, “Here, you can sit next to me. Do you want anything?” 

Bruce sat on the couch, trying not to appear like he was sulking too much, and said a bit stiffly, “Water would be nice. Thank you.” Clark nodded, offering him a small smile. Bruce did not return it. After Clark had handed Bruce his glass of water, grabbed some popcorn, and taken a seat, Wally stood and cleared his throat. 

“Ladies and Gentlemen! I have the honor of welcoming you to the first of what I hope is many official Justice League movie nights. Our initial viewing will be the classic film, _Die Hard_. After the screening, please vote on the issue of whether it should be admitted into Christmas Movie Cannon. Thank you. The viewing will now commence.” With that, the lights were suddenly flicked off and the movie began. Bruce heard Wally land on the couch and begin to munch on popcorn. Despite himself, Bruce settled in, and actually tried to pay attention to the screen— he was here, so why not? 

… 

Clark had never actually seen this movie before, but based off its description, he was highly skeptical that it would be appropriate to call it a ‘Christmas Movie.’ As the film progressed, he found his opinion confirmed. However, Wally seemed to be having a lot of fun, and even Diana looked to be enjoying herself, as she reached for another handful of popcorn, eyes still fixed on the screen. Maybe this would be a regular event… one they wouldn’t have to trick Bruce into coming to. Clark did feel a little bad about that. But, surprisingly, Bruce hadn’t put up too much of a fight and had even stayed. So he couldn’t be too mad about being tricked, right? Clark turned his attention back to the screen, as an explosion there briefly lit up the room. 

… 

Clark nearly leapt out of his skin as he abruptly felt a heavy, dense, hard weight against his shoulder. He twisted his head at an awkward angle and his eyes almost leapt out of his head. It was Bruce who was leaned against his shoulder, mouth slightly parted, breathing softly. Clark froze, completely unsure what to do. He had just gone to dinner at the manor for the first time a month ago. Hell, it had only been four months since he had learned the identity of the man under the cowl. When Clark pictured Batman— Bruce— he’d never imagined this happening. This was uncharted territory and Clark was only panicking a little bit. Okay, a lot. But, he decided, the best thing to do would be to remain very calm and still. So that’s what he did. Clark turned his gaze back to the screen. 

Bruce remained asleep, and Clark thought he must have been very tired to let his guard down like this. Or maybe he’d underestimated the Bat and he really did trust them all this much. Sadly though, Clark doubted that. Either way, Bruce was here, asleep. His breath tickled Clark’s neck and Clark could both hear and feel his low, steady heartbeat. It thrummed in a pleasingly consistent pattern. It was almost calming. As was Bruce’s consistent weight, pressed against his side. As the movie wore on, Bruce pressed closer, and Clark suspected that usually he was a pillow hugger. Still, despite the awkward position, Bruce clearly didn’t mind; if Clark listened hard enough, he could hear Bruce’s eyes flickering under the cowl, a sign of R.E.M sleep. So, despite having to remain rigidly still, and despite his fear of Bruce’s waking (and reprimand) Clark didn’t mind. 

… 

The movie ended and the lights were turned on. Clark thought that would wake Bruce but it didn’t. He merely flinched, and tried to burrow his face into Clark’s shoulder, which, obviously, didn’t work. At this point, everyone else was rising to their feet, stretching, and gathering plates, bowls, and dishes. Wally finally looked over at Clark and nearly dropped the bowl he was carrying. His mouth formed a silent ‘o’ and his eyes nearly bugged out of his head. 

And before Clark could warn him not to do anything, Wally said in a hushed tone, “I didn’t think Batman slept” and it was enough to wake Bruce. He blinked, and looked in a considering manner at Clark’s shoulder, as if questioning if he had really just been using it as a pillow. The only thing that popped into Clark’s head to say was, “Hello” and it had come out of his mouth before he even had time to think if it’d be the right thing to say to Batman. 

Bruce sat up straighter before moving away. Then he rose from the couch in one smooth motion and strode from the room without saying a word. 

There was a silence in the room as the other league members looked at each other, questioning what, exactly, had just happened. That is, until Wally chuckled and said, somewhat thoughtfully, “Like a bat out of hell…” Clark groaned. 

… 

After that, Bruce didn’t talk to him out-of-costume (or even in-costume that much, to be honest) for a month. But after that, Clark supposed, either he’d made peace with the affair, or he wanted everyone else to think so. Bruce didn’t exactly go back to normal— and really, was any man who dressed like a bat and fought crime normal?— but he wasn’t stand-offish. And he talked to Clark. Sometimes. And two weeks later, Clark was invited back to the manor for dinner again. 

Years later, that incident would be one of the least memorable things they had done together, but it still held a certain fondness for Clark, even after all the times Bruce had fallen asleep around him, or asked (grudgingly) for his help, or had helped him, because it was the first time he’d shown any weakness (or as Clark called it, trust) around the league. And, privately, Clark pinpointed that moment as the true beginning of his friendship with Bruce.


	12. Human

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce takes a dive into Gotham Bay in January. It's as unpleasant as it sounds. Luckily, Superman is there to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Christina Perri's song, _Human_.  
>  "I can hold my breath  
> I can bite my tongue  
> I can stay awake for days  
> If that’s what you want  
> Be your number one […]  
> But I’m only human  
> And I bleed when I fall down  
> I’m only human  
> And I crash and I break down."
> 
> I also use a line from Robert Frost's poem, _Fire and Ice_.

Batman fell to his knees, letting out a wretched, shaky gasp. He noted the drip, drip, drip of icy water flowing down his mask, down his nose, onto the pavement. With how cold his whole body was, it only left a faint tickling sensation. There was now a small, but quickly-growing puddle beneath him. Steam rose off him in waves, and water streamed off and out of Batman’s suit, the suit which felt like it was the weight of Saturn, but pressed down on his back. The world spun before him and Bruce looked at his hands on the concrete numbly, observing them as if from behind a movie screen. Things were happening that he just couldn’t feel, or that he observed with a strange sense of detachment. Of course, that could be the hypothermia speaking. 

Another ragged gasp of breath came, and another, and it hurt, like liquid fire igniting within his lungs. Bruce’s ribs ached and he coughed. Then he realized, as it was already happening, that he’d slipped sideways, arm muscles shaking too much to hold him up. The ground hit him with a smack that tingled and echoed through his cold body. Bruce tried to sit up but the sharp ache, as if his muscles would crack if he moved, dissuaded him from trying again. Batman lay on the cool, gray concrete, shivering and gasping for another minute and a half before the shivering stopped and he noted, absently, that it was a full moon that night, and the stars were out. 

Blinking heavily, Bruce realized he’d lost time in an absent, floaty kind of way. Abruptly, he blinked heavy eyelids and forced his body to move. What he needed to do was to get to the car… get to the car and warm up. Heat. Yes. That was what— Bruce rose to his feet, toes feeling as if somebody was stabbing them with a pick axe, legs feeling like they’d been dipped in molten lead, and took a stumbling step forward. Somebody had poured nitrogen into Bruce’s lungs and every breath was cold fire. He left a trail of slowly-freezing water droplets behind. In the dark, they could have almost been droplets of blood. 

“for destruction… ice …ice would suffice,” Bruce murmured deliriously, placing one foot forward. Another breath puffed out, leaving a small, frosty cloud behind. He chuckled. Ice indeed would suffice. January in Gotham was never a pleasant time, and this was no exception. Gotham was a cold, capricious mistress, no pun intended, and her weather reflected this: storms came and went as they pleased, even in Summer. Winter, Bruce had learned after his first year as the Bat, was a different matter entirely. He built a Winter suit shortly after the time he’d nearly broken a leg during an icy patrol. 

Batman took another step forward, hallucinating about great pillars of fire, and Mr. Freeze’s ice gun. Gotham in January was unpredictable. But occasionally, if the storm was big enough, it was detected. That had been the occasion with this particular monster of a blizzard: it had sauntered in a week ago and had just begun to show signs of stopping. But temperatures were still way down and Bruce had been patrolling for any homeless people who needed shelter all week, as there wasn’t much crime out. The temperature ranged from -10 degrees below zero to fifteen degrees Fahrenheit, on a good night. Snow was piled high and though the better neighborhoods had salted and plowed their roads, much of the city was slick and treacherous. Not that that caused too many problems for the Batmobile. Bruce stumbled again. His eyes felt heavy and he shivered once. He stopped, and swore he felt the murky water turning to ice on his skin. But he now saw the car. It helped that this empty space by the recently-exploded warehouse had been plowed. 

Going into the bay on a normal night was not pleasant, and rarely planned. The water was polluted, though Gotham’s environmentalist groups would point out how it had improved in the thirty years since the GBPC (Gotham Bay Protection Committee) had been around. Bruce had to agree, but as somebody who actually went into it on more than one occasion, the bay remained far too polluted for his tastes. That was on a normal night. In January, water temperatures ranged from fifteen to thirty degrees and during a cold year, small ice bergs, no bigger than a large watermelon, would form. The water that night, Bruce’s suit helpfully informed him, had been 20 degrees. This trip into the water, as per usual, was unplanned and unwelcome. There had been a bomb in one of the warehouses Batman was investigating and there had been no time to find another place to shelter. So, grimacing slightly, Bruce had taken off down the wooden dock, shoes thump-thumping on the dark planks. He’d taken a deep breath, held it, and tensed his muscles for the impending shock. It hadn’t helped. 

In fact, he’d found himself sinking for a panic-inducing moment, before his higher reasoning took over and he was able to kick to the surface and swim back to the dock. The swim was longer than he had expected, because the explosion had pushed him out, out into the icy black depths of Gotham Bay, and the suit was not made for submersion. By the time he hauled himself out of the water, gasping, choking, shaking, shivering, his body already felt heavy. His muscles ached, and he felt half-stupid from the shock and cold of it. That was how he’d ended up here. 

Batman took one more weaving, stumble-step forward before tripping over his own wooden limbs. He felt his left wrist crack as he barely managed to stop himself from smacking face-first into the gravely concrete. The sting of his palm and the dull throb of his wrist were not good. Bruce knew he was number than he should be, but found it too hard to move. He tried anyway, and ended up falling flat on his face, hard enough to bruise his cheek. “D-d-aami-it-tttt” he hissed. Bruce breathed in again, and cursed the ache, fading alarmingly fast, in his lungs. 

Suddenly, a concerned voice was shouting, “B!” Bruce drew a rattling breath and half-turned his numb, prickling body toward the voice. As expected, it was the man of steel. 

“What happened?” was the sharp demand, as Bruce distantly felt himself being swooped up into an undignified bridal carry. 

“F-ff-ell in-inn—to th’ b-b-ba-ay,” he chattered. 

“Where are your keys?” Superman asked. Bruce opened his mouth to respond but Clark hushed him, “Sh. Don’t try to speak. Can you point?” Bruce did so, to the third compartment on the right side of the belt. Quickly, Clark removed the keys and unlocked the car. He shoved the keys into the ignition in a way that certainly meant repairs would be needed later. Bruce grumbled, until Clark turned on the heat. Even from outside the car, Bruce could feel it against his numb lips, like a Saharan summer at noon. He sagged, and Clark shook him until his nerves jangled. 

“Hey! Hey! Don’t do that Br— Batman. C’mon, let’s get you inside,” Clark said. Bruce nodded thickly. 

Suddenly, he was inside the car and in the passenger seat. Both doors were shut and locked. Bruce found himself nodding off once again. Until an invulnerable, scorching-hot hand squeezed his lower cheeks uncomfortably. He blinked irritably into Clark’s too-close, glacially blue eyes. “Get your suit off,” Clark growled. Distantly, Bruce realized it was his Superman voice, and he hummed. 

Shakily, the gloves were removed, with much assistance from Clark. Bruce’s eyes widened a bit in surprise upon seeing his bloodless, white fingers and the sickly purple-blue pulp under his nails. The boots and socks were next and joined the other gear in a growing heap on the floor beneath the back seats. The top of the suit was trickier. Clark had to lean Bruce forward, and Bruce was not pleased to see how he flopped about limply like a doll. Mostly, he slurred instructions about buckles, catches, and zippers and absently felt the tug and then a sudden burst of warmth, as the suit came free. He breathed a bit easier too. 

There was a persistent, irritating chattering, like the clacking of castanets. Bruce realized it was his teeth. Clark reached forward again to tug at the hem of his shirt and Bruce shivered. Clark froze, irrationally worried that he’d spooked Bruce. Bruce huffed and said, “I... I g-got it.” 

In a few jerky motions, Bruce’s bare chest was revealed. His flesh was frightening: mottled white and pink and blue and yellowish, scars standing out starkly. Clark turned the heat up more and the hot blast made Bruce shiver. Clark reached for a foot and Bruce jumped a little at the feel of Clark’s burning hand on his foot. He also realized starkly, that Clark’s hand was supporting the entire weight of his leg, as he could not, even upon trying, force the muscles to move. Bruce wasn’t sure where this was going until his pant-leg began to be tugged down. He sighed and Clark said sternly, “They’re coming off one way or another. Either you help or it’ll get done for you.” 

Bruce reached to his hips and awkwardly wriggled around. Between him and Clark, the pants were off, and haphazardly strewn on the pile of wet, smelly gear. Bruce, almost all of him, was left to the piercing gaze of Superman. Even his boxers weren’t much of a comfort as they clung wetly to his form and left him no amount of decency. Clark looked on the dash, and seemed to find what he was looking for: the trunk unlocking mechanism. He looked worriedly over at Bruce, who stared grumpily, but not fully alertly, back. He absolutely refused to cross his arms, so settled for curling his hands into the leather seat. Clark muttered something and then quickly opened the door. Bruce shivered a second at the icy blast and was relieved when the door shut. Clark came back with a foil blanket and apologized for the second icy blast. 

“Here,” he said, holding out the blanket. Bruce wrapped it around himself, glad for the immediate increase in warmth and for the added modesty. This gained some scrutiny from Clark, but he seemed satisfied with Bruce’s tucking and so buckled him up. Absently, he explained, “I didn’t want to fly you. I thought you’d lose too much body heat that way.” 

“Hm.” Bruce said, blinking. Clark started the car and drove smoothly and slowly away from the docks. The warmth, and exhaustion, coupled with the even movement, lulled Bruce into a deep and dreamless sleep. 

Later, Bruce blinked open heavy eyes to see that he was in his bed. Most of his vision was obscured by the fluffy blankets he was swaddled in, and he felt that his underwear were dry and tried not to reflect on the question of who had changed them too much. This was helped by the boneless warm feeling he had from both the softness of his bed and because of the patch of body heat he’d generated over the unknown hours he’d been out. Bruce felt his eyes sliding shut again before a voice interrupted: “Hey. Don’t fall back asleep yet, okay? I have tea.” 

Bruce shook his head and muttered, “don’t want t’ move.” 

Clark replied, “You don’t have to. I have a straw.” Bruce hummed. 

He cracked open his eyes just enough to locate the straw and drank some of the chamomile tea, which was a pleasant, warm balm in the pit of his stomach. It also satiated his thirst. As Bruce became a bit more alert, he realized that the slightly sharp aftertaste of the tea was one of Alfred’s pain killers and, he also realized, that his left wrist was in a temporary cast. But he didn’t much care at the moment. 

When he’d finished the tea, Bruce lay his head back down with a small sigh. He felt, rather than saw, Clark lay another blanket over him. Even thought it was ridiculous, Bruce imagined he could already feel the warmth of the extra blanket. He was sucked back into sleep. 

The next time Bruce awoke, it was to the painful sensation of sandpaper being rubbed against his throat as he attempted to swallow. A cough escaped his lips, and his tongue felt thick. But mostly, the pounding headache, which beat in time with his heart, was what hurt the most. He sat up a little, and had to stop as the room spun and his head seemed to wobble in space. Another rattling breath escaped and Bruce coughed, then groaned. “Ah, the prodigal son awakens,” snarked Alfred as he stepped into the room with a covered tray. Bruce huffed, and sat up. He winced as he tried to push up with his wrist. 

“Where’s Clark?” Bruce asked thickly, coughing again. 

“Master Clark has business to attend to. But rest assured, Master Wayne, he made me swear to alert him when you decided to rejoin us. I believe he wanted to talk to you after he was done at work,” Alfred said primly. Bruce growled, leaning back against his pillows. So he would be getting an Alfred lecture and a Superman one as well. Wonderful. 

The smell of soup interrupted Bruce’s thoughts. He looked up as Alfred set down the tray, which contained a glass of water, a steaming bowl of chicken soup, and two pills. “I do hope you won’t disappoint me farther, Master Bruce, by not taking your pain killers. I may just forget this whole incident if you do so,” Alfred said, fixing him with a look. 

That seemed like a pretty good deal to Bruce so he sighed, coughed, and replied, “Yes, Alfred.” His butler left the room, practically radiating satisfaction. Bruce ate the soup, which was, as per usual, excellent, drank the water, shuffled to the bathroom, took the pills, and crawled under the blanket pile again, burrowing in the same warm spot as before. For once, Bruce didn’t feel like fighting Alfred’s instructions, and besides, he had a couple hours to kill anyway, waiting for Clark. Within minutes, he was asleep again.


	13. Drifting: 5 Times Bruce (Almost) Fell Asleep I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the beginning of a mini-series. Basically, it's Bruce relaxing/almost falling asleep. Dick and Alfred are in this one. Part I is titled "Lemonade."
> 
>  
> 
> Read the chapter notes for more info.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of a mini-series within the larger series. This is only part one, and as I come up with more ideas, I'll add them. They'll be labeled by part (I, II, III, etc.) and with "Drifting: 5 Times Bruce (Almost) Fell Asleep." Otherwise, the larger series will continue as normal. Enjoy!

It was a sunny day in Gotham, which was as abnormal as one describing Antarctica as warm. Even more strange, it wasn’t even truly spring time yet. February in Gotham wasn’t usually _too_ rainy, but the weather, as always, called for slate-colored skies, a biting wind, and low temperatures. Yet, it was not overcast, and in fact, it hadn’t rained in over a week. The morning sky had been pink, with almost no clouds, cumulous or cumulonimbus, according to Alfred. 

Bruce had woken up around noon, wincing slightly as he leaned a bit too hard on his recently re-set shoulder. He blinked, a bit puzzled as he squinted at the wall opposite his bed. It seemed brighter than usual, somehow. His puzzlement was resolved after Alfred yanked open the blinds and Bruce was able to look out on the manor yard's expansive greenery. While the sky wasn’t a robin’s egg blue (it was still Gotham, after all), it was a pleasant almost-Cadet blue. Bruce blinked, a bit surprised. “As you can see, Master Bruce, it has turned out to be a quite balmy afternoon. Perhaps, Sir, you could take advantage of it?” Alfred suggested pointedly. 

Truly regretful for once, Bruce turned back to his faithful butler and father-figure. “I’d love to, Al, but I haven’t been into the office all week and I have paperwork that needs to be filled out by Friday. But, believe me, if I could I would,” he said. Alfred shut the blinds and plunged the room into an oppressive-feeling dimness. Bruce tried not to feel too depressed. 

“Very well, Sir. But… may I suggest that perhaps you could take your work to the back patio instead?” Alfred said. Bruce thought about it a moment, and for the life of him, couldn’t find a reason to object. It wasn’t like most of his work wasn’t accessible, thanks to the modern wonders of technology. Really, going into the office was more of a formality, and Brucie Wayne cared very little for formality… 

“You know, Alfred… I think I’ll take you up on that suggestion,” Bruce said. Alfred quirked a brow. 

“Are you feeling quite alright, Master Bruce?” he jested. Bruce grumbled. 

“I’m not _that_ bad, Al.” 

“Indeed, Sir,” his butler commented ‘neutrally.’ Bruce harrumphed. 

… 

Half an hour later, Bruce was settled into a lawn chair in the back with his laptop and one of Alfred’s special protein smoothies. He’d even made it taste good too, which meant he was pleased with Bruce. In fact, Bruce could hardly taste the painkillers at all, which he was pleased about, even if he was annoyed that Alfred thought he needed them. He hadn’t even torn his shoulder this time. But, if his butler was happy, Bruce was happy, and with the sun out, he couldn’t find it within himself to start an argument. 

On top of everything, Bruce was making good progress on the frankly astounding amount of paperwork he had to do. Abruptly, he yawned, and blinked. The computer screen in front of him swam and he shook his head to clear it. It was three thirty. He’d been working for _three hours?_ Well. Maybe he’d have to work outside more often then… if it was ever sunny like this again in Gotham. Bruce harrumphed at the thought and tried to turn his attention back to his laptop. 

But fifteen minutes later, he shut the computer with a click, finding that his mind was wandering too much to truly pay attention to the screen in front of him; though Brucie Wayne was a ditz, and a poor CEO, _Bruce_ couldn’t afford to be. He actually had to pay attention to what he was reading. He stretched and yawned again. 

... 

An hour later, Dick Grayson arrived back at the manor for his monthly visit. “Hey, Alfie!” he greeted, resting his sunglasses atop his head. 

Alfred beamed. “Master Richard! What a pleasant surprise. You have arrived home early,” he said. 

Dick grinned. “Yeah! I got off my shift early. It was a slow day today. I thought I’d spend the time here. Actually, you know what? I’m gonna go back to the patio, catch some vitamin D,” he said. 

Alfred nodded. “An appropriate choice, Sir. I cannot remember the last time it was quite this pleasant in Gotham, I must confess. You may still catch Master Bruce outside. By some miracle, he agreed that working outdoors on a day such as this was an opportunity too appealing to pass up. Oh, and before I forget, there is fresh lemonade in the fridge,” he said. 

“Thanks Alfred!” Dick said. He poured himself a glass, then one for Bruce, mulling over his thoughts as he poured the sugary yellow drink. _Alfred was right, it was something of a miracle that Bruce had agreed to stay home_ , he thought. Dick grabbed a small throw pillow from the sitting room and held it under his chin and carried a glass of lemonade in each hand. If he hummed as he walked out back, well there was no one to hear it except Alfred. 

Dick continued humming as he shut the door and set his glass of lemonade down. He was about to turn to Bruce to ask if he wanted his when his mentor grunted, “Dick? What are you doing here?” 

Dick turned to answer, and nearly dropped the second glass of lemonade. Bruce was sitting— more like reclining— in his lawn chair, eyes closed. He had his laptop on a small table next to him, along with a manila folder and a pen. But his eyes were closed. Dick’s mouth was open, and he thought, shocked, _was Bruce… relaxing?_ After Dick got over his shock, he realized his mouth was open still and he shut it. A silence fell over them and Bruce cracked open one eye, and glanced at the lemonade in his son’s hand. “Is that for me?” he asked. Mutely, Dick handed it to him, sitting in his own chair afterwards. 

A few minutes later, Bruce shifted, and opened his eyes again. “What?” he asked, sounding a bit grumpy. 

“Well. You’re… relaxing,” Dick said, a bit teasingly, a bit concernedly. Bruce didn’t ‘relax.’ 

“Oh,” Bruce said, letting his eyes close once more, “that’s it? I’m allowed to relax. It’s nice out.” 

Dick opened his mouth, “It’s not that! It’s just…” _you don’t really relax, B. Like, ever._

“’M allowed to relax,” Bruce replied grumpily. 

“Yeah, of course, B. But… you don’t really. Which is why it’s good you’re doing it now!” Dick said insistently, worried that he’d drive Bruce away. 

But, apparently, he wasn’t in the mood to argue, because he turned over and simply said, “hmm.” Then he was silent. The only way Dick knew he wasn’t sleeping is that occasionally he’d squint open his eyes and take a sip of Alfred’s lemonade. 

After one of these occasions, Dick withdrew his cellphone and snapped a picture. “B’s relaxing” he typed out as a caption, sending it to Clark, who responded with “Napping?!” 

“No. More like… drifting. He’s drinking Alfred’s lemonade.” Dick sent back. 

“Mind control?” Clark asked. Dick snorted. 

“That better not be about me,” Bruce muttered. Dick gulped and cleared his throat. 

“Nah. It’s just something Wally sent me,” he said. 

“Okay,” Bruce said. Dick’s phone buzzed, another message from Clark: “Have fun!” He smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who are curious, here is a website with the names of various shades of blue. I found out what 'Cadet Blue' looks like here:
> 
> https://www.lifewire.com/medium-blue-colors-1077400
> 
> Also, here's a website with different types of clouds, if you're wondering:
> 
> https://scied.ucar.edu/webweather/clouds/cloud-types


	14. Exhaustion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce has an _insane_ work ethic. But sometimes, it's unreasonable— even dangerous. He doesn't understand the concept of 'pacing oneself' or what 'overworking' is. To his detriment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Walk around with warpaint on my face […]  
> If my days are almost done and I'm the one going  
> I'll be alright, I'll be alright, well no-  
> Nobody's gonna say I didn't give it all (ya, ya, ya, ya, ya, ya)  
> Tiptoeing on the cliffs I think its worth the fall (ya, ya, ya, ya, ya, ya)  
> If I get there and my tank's on E, then I'll be OK […]  
> Nobody's gonna say I didn't give it all (ya, ya, ya, ya, ya, ya) […]  
> Since somebody's got it worse I don't complain  
> Another reason why I work like a motherfucker"  
> —"Saint Nobody" Jessie Reyez

"Sleep-deprived people seem to be especially prone to poor judgment when it comes to assessing what lack of sleep is doing to them."

"[Humans are] the only mammal that willingly delays sleep."

_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_

Batman was nocturnal, but Bruce Wayne was only human. He was not. 

Batman regularly stayed up to 01:00, 02:00, or even 03:00 occasionally. Batman and sleep disagreed. Sleep was _weakness_. Being the only human on the team was no excuse to miss briefings because he needed to ‘rest.’ How would Superman look at him, if he said he couldn’t make it to a league meeting because it was past his bed time? Being sleepy in the field, at best, lead to embarrassing errors, at worst to costly mistakes. Sleepiness was potentially deadly. No, Batman was no fan of sleep. 

Bruce considered himself lucky if he got six hours of sleep a night. He averaged about 4 and ¼ or 5 hours, usually. This meant he kept a very strict nap schedule (when things weren’t going to shit). He tried to grab micro naps four times a day and a power nap twice. However, obviously, Bruce’s sleep cycle wasn’t perfect: he exercised— if one counted vigilantism as a form of exercise— directly before bed, he used electronics before sleep, regularly drank more than three cups of coffee, and he had PTSD and the condition’s resulting nightmares. Basically, his circadian rhythm was fucked. But, he was Batman, and had trained to withstand sleep. Sleep, one of the two inescapable constants of humanity: sleep, and death. 

But, more often than healthy, Bruce sacrificed his sleep for something more important. Meetings with Gordon were one such thing. Monitor duty was another. Finishing important W.E. paperwork was another (dreaded) necessary cause. Or, a simple case of a potentially world-ending emergency would do the trick. Sometimes, it was a case, unsolved, or in the process, others, it was nightmares. Occasionally, insomnia would strike for no reason, none at all. It was these moments, when Bruce’s mind would spin in the dark, leaving him to stare at the dim ceiling, hearing his own breath, feeling the pains of his (too-mortal) body, suffering, that he hated the most. 

In short, though Batman did not agree with sleep, Bruce Wayne would say he had the worse relationship with it. The feeling of being _rested_ , of being _refreshed_ was El Dorado, Atlantis, Utopia. Bruce did not wake rested. He woke sore, gritty-eyed, slowly, often with a slight headache. With eyes closer to the shade of ricotta than to a pure, natural white. His eyes constantly carried bags the color of lavender, or puce. When it was really bad, he felt like a slowly-deflating balloon, or like a slowly-cooling piece of lava: still far too hot, but slowing, slowing, slowing. At these times, his head throbbed in time to his heart beat, his eyes felt boiled over and sandy, the world wobbled and he felt like following the example of Rip Van Winkle. Or, on worse days, for a period of time longer than 20 years. 

It had been 72 hours since Batman had rested for 4+ hours. Currently, it was 02:30, and Bruce was about three quarters of the way through monitor duty. He yawned. Blinked. His eyes watered and his face felt too hot so he removed the cowl. Bruce’s chin thumped against his chest and he jolted upright. He took a deep gulp of coffee and momentarily felt nauseous from the almost-radioactive feeling of the caffeine hitting his system. He sighed once and rubbed his eyes. Half an hour to go. Bruce turned back to the (too-bright, headache-inducing) monitors and watched as the world tore itself apart. 

Clark took over, sending a concerned look at the Batman. It was only after he had half-way reached the teleporters that he realized that Superman had looked at him funny because he’d said, “Goodnight” and Batman had said nothing. Bruce paused, blinked, and considered going back just to say goodnight. But he shook his head. That was silly. He yawned, so widely his jaw popped. Slowly, carefully, he input the cave’s coordinates into the system. It wouldn’t do to end up in Antarctica, after all. 

Once he was home, Batman, almost woodenly, retreated to the sanctuary of the cave’s cot. He had to get an early start running some samples through the lab’s chemical analysis equipment tomorrow and it would be more efficient to sleep in the cave. Also, he almost doubted his ability to _walk_ to his real bedroom at this point. He hoped Alfred wouldn't come down to the cave and lecture him. 

… 

One hundred-sixty-nine hours. Seven days. One full week. Without more than 4 hours of sleep a night. He had not slept more than three last night, hadn’t napped at all since Tuesday. Had not even _breathed_ (it felt like) since last week, and no time for mediation, for decompression. For removing stress from his body. On top of this was the fight they had just won. Barry, somehow, had the energy to laugh at something Diana had said. 

Batman jerked awake from where he was (slumped) in the back of the javelin at the sound of Barry’s laughter. He shook his (heavy, but oddly, dizzily, woozily light) head and bit down on his cheek to send a sharp, metallic burst of awareness through his body. J’ohn landed the plane with little more than a jolt and Bruce was the last one off. His body screamed with every step. Muscles filled with lactic acid. Joints stretched. Skin pulped, bruised, torn, badly in some places. Eyes like liquid fire. Brain engulfed in an ether-like fugue. Movement came like he was orbiting Saturn. Blackness danced flamenco, tango, a ballet. His headache was singing opera. Batman’s fluid movements had been dammed, Bruce’s sharp wit had been whittled away to dullness. His control had been snapped. Bruce felt hollowed out. 

Briefly, he re-entered the real world and realized he was alone, and at the doorway of the Watchtower’s medical center. He couldn’t quite recall why he’d wanted to come here until a sharper pain made itself heard above the painful cacophony of his body. It was a battle wound on his arm, still bleeding. It was a fairly deep gash that ran the length of his hand, located on the upper inside part of his bicep. Bruce needed to clean it. Then, rest. Then rest. Bruce gathered the necessary supplies: bandages, tweezers, scissors, an antiseptic, a pack of cleansing wipes, some cotton swabs and padding. He set it on the bed and sat heavily. His last conscious thought was: _just gonna set these here… ahh, it felt so good to sit. I’m just going to sit… clean the wound, just sit. Close my eyes, and rest…_

… 

Bruce’s body was almost draped over the small medical cot. Batman was not a small man, standing at 6’4’’ and weighing 220 lbs. Usually, although the JL’s medical cots were a bit wider, they were fairly uncomfortable. But not in this instance. Every one of Batman’s muscles was limp, and his mouth was open. He was twisted, half his upper body was sideways, but his legs flung out across the bed, and his arms sprawled loosely at his sides; it looked as if he’d been sitting on the bed and had fallen sideways. The cape had looped itself over an arm and through his legs before coming to puddle over the floor. One glove was off and the cowl, which was resting on the bedside table, looked to be in danger of falling off. While he didn’t snore, his breathing was deep and audible across the room, even for a normal person. Two hours later, he had shifted so his whole body lay flat on the cot. Bruce adjusted again so his face was pressed into the pillow. Bruce’s legs had shifted and he’d kicked the supply kit to the ground with a clatter. One eyebrow furrowed and then smoothed. It was the sound of the supplies falling that attracted the attention of Superman. 

… 

Clark heard the clatter of fallen supplies coming from— he adjusted his hearing— the medical center. He frowned momentarily, but went back to typing the mission report. It was only a few minutes later that the sound of his typing crashed abruptly to a halt. Nobody had _picked up_ the supplies, which (especially if it was Batman) meant that whoever had dropped the supplies could have passed out or be unresponsive. 

Clark rushed through the halls to the medical center without even saving his work first. He burst through the door and came to a dead stop. It was Batman alright. But he was out cold, not passed out. As Clark’s eyes roved over the sight of his friend, they snagged on the raw gash on his upper arm. His brow crinkled. His concern grew. It was unlike Bruce to sleep in the Watchtower. It was even more strange for him to not at least clean a wound. Even more uncharacteristic for him to go into the medical center. Finding him sleeping, with a (seemingly) uncleaned wound was equivalent to finding a meteor of pure kryptonite— exceedingly rare and unwelcome. Clark walked forward softly and gently laid a hand on Bruce’s naked wrist. The man didn’t stir. Clark’s brow compressed farther. 

Finally, he gently shook the other man, and murmured, “Bruce.” On the third name calling, the other man finally stirred, and Clark heard a pitiful, _“hunh?”_ escape his lips. His heartrate climbed sluggishly and his fluttering eyelids sounded like moths. A pang of pity shot through him. Bruce slowly turned around and didn’t even protest when Clark helped him sit up. He blinked, yawned widely, and squinted at Clark. He looked a bit ridiculous with the angry redness and pillow marks on his face. 

“Clark?” he asked dazedly. Clark smiled gently. 

“Hey,” he said softly. Bruce blinked again, eyelids staying shut for a long moment. 

Clark tapped a finger against the inside of Bruce’s wrist and the other man seemed to refocus somewhat. “Did you clean your wounds, Bruce?” Clark asked clearly and slowly. 

Bruce frowned, like Clark had asked him to translate ancient Kryptonian poetry. 

“I don’t… _know?_ ” he said, blinking again. 

Another pang of sadness, at seeing Bruce hurt like this, shot through Clark. It felt like emotional kryptonite. He would definitely be talking to Batman after this. “Okay then. I’m gonna clean it for you, alright?” he said. 

“’kay,” Bruce slurred. 

Clark sped through the process, and Bruce didn’t offer a single word. He barely even flinched. In fact, as Clark was applying the last of the bandages, he noticed that Bruce had drifted off again. Clearly there would be no point in trying to wake him for a long while. Once again, Superman took in the scene, eyes flickering from the sleeping form in front of him to the precariously placed cowl, to the glove on the floor. He made an executive decision. 

… 

Sixteen hours later, Bruce slowly stirred and blinked open his eyes. He was in his room in the Watchtower, cape-less, cowl-less, and suit-less. All he was wearing were the under suit and a bandage on his arm. He sat slowly, wincing at the soreness that came with being immobile for long periods of time. He scratched his head and looked at the bandage, frowning. He had absolutely no recollection of either entering the room or undressing. In fact, the last thing he really remembered was feeling tired, and thinking something about… needing to go to the medical center? Bruce definitely remembered getting off the javelin, but after that was foggy at best. Hm, that was… mildly concerning. 

Suddenly, a knock at his door jolted Bruce from his thoughts. He cleared his slightly rusty-feeling throat and called, “Come in.” 

It was Clark, carrying a glass of water. Wordlessly, he handed it to Bruce who drank it in three large gulps. Once he was done, he set it on the bedside table with a clunk and turned his attention to Clark. Clark, who looked him in the eyes (in a way that made Bruce feel pried apart) and said seriously, “We need to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **1 day** = 24 hours, 2 = 48, 3 = 72, **1 week** = 169, **1 month** = 730.001, **1 year** = 8,760 
> 
>  
> 
> Hour/Time info from: https://www.google.com/search?q=how+many+hours+in+a+week&ie=&oe=
> 
>  
> 
> 1\. [Humans are] the only mammal that willingly delays sleep. Full list of facts about sleep deprivation: https://www.webmd.com/sleep-disorders/features/10-results-sleep-loss#1
> 
>  
> 
> Symptoms of Sleep Deprivation: https://www.verywellhealth.com/what-are-the-symptoms-of-sleep-deprivation-3015161
> 
>  
> 
> Effects of Sleep Deprivation: https://www.webmd.com/sleep-disorders/features/10-results-sleep-loss#1
> 
>  
> 
> Military Time Chart: http://militarytimechart.com/


	15. The Care and Keeping of a Bat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce is sick again, but this time, he's all alone. Some (super)assistance is required.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why is it sic fic is always so much easier to write when you're actually sick? Ugh.

It started out as a mild inconvenience. A slightly heady feeling of congestion. A lightly scratchy throat. Bruce went to bed earlier, took a few aspirin. He’d thought he was in the clear. Then the third day walloped him. He woke up crusty-eyed, thick-tongued, unable to breathe. As he sat up, he could feel the mucus build-up in his head slosh. About the only thing he could hear was the Darth Vader sound of his own heavy mouth breathing. He tried to swallow, but felt like there was a giant marble in the back of his throat. He let out a goose-honk of a sigh as he felt his nose start to run, like a toddler had turned on all the house's faucets. Thankfully, it was Saturday, so Bruce was able to pad downstairs leisurely in his thickest woolen socks, rattiest sweatshirt, and most comfortable sweatpants. He turned on the coffee maker and sat at the island with another monstrous-sounding groan. Bruce lay his head down against the cool-feeling marble. 

The beeping of the coffee machine woke him, and Bruce nearly tipped his bar stool. Thankfully, he recovered in time. Bruce quickly glanced around. No one had seen that. He frowned. No one had seen that. And suddenly, he remembered. Jason was out of town on a case. Steph was taking classes over winter term, and Cass was… somewhere. Damian was spending his winter break with Dick in Bludhaven. And Alfred, Bruce recalled with a pang, had had a week-long retreat planned with an old friend from England. He’d left sometime early last night. Sighing (more like wheezing) again, Bruce went to collect his coffee. Thankfully, he didn’t need to cook just yet because Alfred had bought him cereal. But his nose interrupted him. Bruce grabbed a couple of napkins and ate his pathetic breakfast. 

Later that day, Bruce felt, somehow, even worse. He had thought this would be a mild cold, that maybe even he wouldn’t get sick-sick. But it was not turning out that way. His head felt double its usual size and he still couldn’t hear very well, or taste anything (he’d made himself a can of tomatoe soup for lunch). Worse, it felt like somebody had sandpapered his nose, and it looked it— a chapped, raw red color at the end. He tucked his ice-like fingers under his arms, and swallowed roughly again. And he had the urge to pee. Again. He absently pondered if it was possible to overhydrate, because he’d had (in addition to the coffee) about four cups of tea and… he’d actually lost count of how many glasses of water he’d drunk. Bruce washed his hands and sneezed. He blew his nose and washed his hands again. “Fuck,” he growled, though it came out more like “Fuh-gh.” That did it. Aspirin was no longer working. He needed actual cold meds. 

What had seemed like a simple quest an hour later had turned into a search for El Dorado. Bruce had combed over his bathroom and come up empty. He’d gone through the guest bedrooms, then the boys', then the kitchen cabinets. Nothing. Not a single tablet or bottle of cold medicine in the entire house. “Ughn,” he squeaked. Bruce paused his search to blow his nose again, wincing. He could go to the store… but that meant getting changed, driving into Gotham, and probably ending up in one of Gotham’s gossip magazines. Or, he could go to the Watchtower and raid the medical center. While that did require getting suited up, it meant Bruce didn’t have to drive, or change. Which sounded very appealing. So that’s what he decided to do. 

After blowing his nose once more for good measure, Bruce headed down to the cave and changed. As predicted, it did take a little longer. He finally teleported up, trying to ignore the throbbing that the zeta beams set off in his head. 

Bruce switched on the cowl’s enhanced microphone in case anyone tried to get his attention. It’d be quite embarrassing if he walked by someone, or worse, caused people to say that Batman had been ignoring them. Breathing proved to be quite the challenge as well, because the cowl blocked his nose even more and it wasn’t like he could walk around the Watchtower slack-mouthed as he’d done at home. Worse, he was on a time limit before his nose started dripping again. Unfortunately, Bruce knew from experience that cleaning snot out of the cowl was very unpleasant. 

So when he finally made it to the medical center, he was relieved. And more exhausted than he probably should be. He locked the door and removed the cowl, gasping a bit. This was when he sneezed, and his nose turned into Niagara falls. “Mudder fuh-gger,” Bruce cursed, hunting for tissues. He found some and wiped his nose, hissing at the raw feeling. He let out one rattling sigh, and gasped in another breath. This was literally the worst. He blinked and refocused. Right. He needed cold meds. Bruce found them in the third cabinet, and tried not to feel like the kid in the proverbial candy shop as he swept practically the entire shelf into his belt’s compartments. He made a mental note to ask Clark to restock. 

Bruce pulled up his cowl and made for the teleporters, praying he could make it before he sneezed again or ran into anyone. Unfortunately, he was able to do neither. About halfway through the hall, he sneezes into his arm, doubling over. As he straightens up, he looks right into the eyes of a concerned-looking Superman. Bruce is very glad, once again, that the cowl is lead-lined because he can feel his nose start to drip, and fuck, he is going to have to clean the cowl out after all. Fuck fuck fuck. “Batman,” Superman says, adding a touch of concern into his tone. 

“Supermahnd,” Bruce says, cringing at the sound of his own voice. One of Clark’s eyebrows rises. Bruce realizes he hasn’t been breathing and lets out one Darth Vader-y breath. Fuck. Clark’s other eyebrow joins its twin and Bruce scowls. 

“What are you doing here?” Clark asks. Bruce flushes. 

“Raidingh dhe medicine cabnet,” Bruce says honestly, flushing. Clark frowns again. 

“Alfred didn’t have anything?” he asks. Bruce sighs (squeaks). 

“Alfbread isn’t here,” he answers, scowling. Clark looks surprised. 

“Is anyone at— your house?” he asks, catching himself. 

“No—” a-choo— “they’re not,” Bruce answers, trying to step around Clark. He really needs to get the cowl off, and get a tissue. Clark, unfortunately, is being stubborn. Bruce growls, or tries to. He ends up sucking in breaths again, annoyed. 

“I’m coming with you,” Clark says firmly. 

“Fibne,” Bruce groans. The two of them take the teleport back to the cave. 

The first thing Bruce does is stride to the locker room and rip off the cowl to blow his nose. Carefully, he dampens a rag and wipes off the majority of the snot from inside the cowl with a huff. He sets it down by a box of tissues on the desk to deal with later. That’s when he realizes that Clark is missing. And not in the trying-to-give-Bruce-space missing, but as in, Bruce doesn’t know where he is. Bruce also realizes, with a shiver, that it’s freaking cold in the cave, even in a sweatshirt and thick socks. He awkwardly stuffs the cold meds into his pockets. Then he wanders upstairs, kind of expecting Clark to be there. 

Bruce passes through his office, and into the hall, where he can (sort-of) hear the kettle whistling. He pads into the kitchen and sits awkwardly at the island, removing bottles and containers from his pockets. Bruce blinks as he realizes that Clark is in his street clothes… and he’s making ramen. Bruce frowns. “Here,” Clark says, handing him a steaming mug of tea, “it’s peppermint.” 

“Thanx,” Bruce says, cradling it in his frozen fingers. After letting it cool a moment, he takes a sip, and his eyes half-close for a moment as the heat hits his throat, and the liquid washes over his tongue. Bruce opens his eyes when he ears the rattling of a cap. 

“I assume you haven’t taken anything yet,” Clark says, reading the label of the open bottle. He measures out the blue liquid and hands it to Bruce, who downs it like a shot. He grimaces slightly at the taste, washing it away with the tea. Clark turns around to stir the ramen. 

Five minutes later, Bruce is presented a steaming bowl of ramen, and, he sees, one softly-cooked egg. He catches himself as his face quirks into a grimace. But there is so much salt in this… Mentally sighing, Bruce takes a bite of the noodles. Not as bad as he’d thought, but he won’t be eating this again anytime soon. He blinks, realizing Clark has sat two seats down from him. “You dohn’t haf to stay,” Bruce says. Clark snorts. 

“Says the man who stole the cold meds from the Watchtower. Tell me that someone else will be here and I’ll leave,” Clark challenges. 

Bruce scowls, answering after taking another sip of tea, “I’mb pretty sure inh the longh run those meds were paid for. And no, I’m by myself for the rest of the week. Budt that doesn’t meab you need to stay.” 

Clark chuckles. “Point taken. And of course I’m gonna stay, Bruce!” Bruce sighs, and to his chagrin, sneezes. Clark offers a tissue box, from seemingly nowhere. Bruce is pleasantly surprised to see that he sprung for the special aloe vera/ lotion-infused kind. 

“Thanx,” Bruce says, walking to the trash. He rinses his hands quickly and finishes the tea. He sets the empty ramen bowl in the sink, and tries to head to his office. Clark grabs his wrist. Bruce jerks to a halt and glares at him. 

“You need rest,” Clark says. Bruce shoots him another dirty look, but it is rather ineffective. The meds, whatever they were, had finally kicked in and Bruce is feeling rather tired— reaching a plateau instead of just going downhill. His head feels less huge and his breathing feels less laborious. Clark seems to capitalize on Bruce’s momentary weakness because Bruce is suddenly being (gently) dragged first to the stairs and then up them. Clark lets go after about the fourth stair and politely ignores the way Bruce wheezes, sounding like a freakish cross-mix of a goat’s bleating and a goose’s honk. He waits for Bruce at each landing, and though Bruce feels a righteous prickling of annoyance, he’s too grateful (and tired) to really let it bother him. 

Finally, they make it to the second floor. Clark busies himself by filling a glass of water, which he sets on Bruce’s bedside table, and by setting out another box of soft tissues and an empty trashcan. Bruce catches a yawn half-out his mouth and manages to stop it. But his eyes still water, and he sinks onto his bed, blinking. Clark has reappeared by his side and has pulled back the covers. “I have to go,” he says, “but I’ll be listening, if you need anything” so don’t try anything, Bruce’s mind supplies distantly. 

Bruce isn’t quite able to suppress the yawn this time. Somehow, he’s ended up lying down. Clark pulls Bruce’s blankets over him. Bruce puts his head on his pillow, and says distantly, “Hm. Thanx, Clark,” Then his eyes are shut, and Bruce feels like he’s melting into his bed, the warm feeling swirling into colors, becoming a dream. He lets out one deep, rattling breath. Clark chuckles. 

“Sleep well, Bruce,” he says, floating out of the room.


	16. Drifting: 5 Times Bruce (Almost) Fell Asleep II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce meditates. To de-stress. To simply _be_. For... multiple, personal reasons. Clark finds out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part II of the _Drifting_ series. Titled, "Meditation."

Sometimes, Bruce needed to de-stress. 

Batman was supposed to be a steady, unmovable, _terrifying_ , force. Someone solid for the league to look up to, someone ordinary citizens could count on, someone criminals feared. Being Batman was stressful. Bruce was only human, after all, and not actually an immoveable force, made solely of fear. When Bruce had started, all those years ago, he had not quite had a game plan for if his time as Batman _went well_. To be honest, and Bruce usually tried to be nothing but honest with himself, Bruce had not thought he’d be _alive_ right now. So Batman had spiraled beyond his wildest dreams… much of his life had, actually. 

Being Bruce Wayne was, in its own way, uniquely stressful. Maintaining the image, while secretly managing every. Little. Detail. Making sure to obscure Batman’s activities, saying the right thing to the _wrong_ person, and the _wrong_ thing to the right person, it was exhausting. And that did not even include his children, bless them. Bruce had never imagined having children, yet somehow, he’d ended up with a _swarm_ of them: Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian, Cassandra (Stephanie, and Barbra, to an extent)… he loved them all, but together, the Wayne children were a mess, a nightmare really, to parent. Even the oldest— _especially_ his oldest, because they were smart and independent enough to argue back, damnit. 

So Bruce was frequently very stressed. It did not help that his traumas (and Bruce knew he had a _lot_ of them) made him clam up. It did not help that his natural personality was more reserved, less inclined to share. It did not help that he was trained to be independent, and to resent needing (or even wanting) assistance. These factors combined into a toxic kind of stress that Bruce knew could (probably would) someday kill him— if something else didn’t manage that first. So he needed some way to de-stress, as a sheer matter of practicality, if nothing else. However, Bruce was not so much a stoic as to claim that he was fine with being stressed. He did not like the frazzled feeling of being three-days’ without sleep, while working on a case, or W.E. paperwork. He did not like feeling a low, prickling, irrational annoyance at everything, even his children, because he was drowning under the pressure of fulfilling (exceeding in) his duties as a father, a CEO, a vigilante, a team leader. He did not like the deep sinking feeling he got occasionally that murmured to him that it would be okay to drop it all, just for a bit, to curl up in a ball and cry. 

Bruce needed a method to de-stress. And for him, that had been meditation. 

With meditation, Bruce was able to be, to simply exist within space and time, without having to make decisions, without having to explain himself to other people, without having to experience the judgement of others. He was able to look inside himself and observe his thoughts, his problems, his desires, his hopes, and organize them. With meditation, Bruce could simply exist as himself and be without apologizing or explaining to _anyone_. It was very freeing. 

So when Bruce was stressed, he meditated. It was not a secret, though he rarely talked about it with anyone (that would mean acknowledging that Bruce Wayne had something to be stressed about, and what could a _playboy billionaire_ possibly be stressed about? Or it meant that _Batman_ was stressed, and why would the solid-as-rock vigilante be stressed?) Also, as Bruce was a private person, and meditation was very much personal, and about the mind, he did not feel inclined to share the details of this method of de-stressing. Meditation was, in a way, Bruce’s personal secret. Something that was only _his_. It was nice, to have something to grasp onto like that. It was almost like a child’s security blanket, but more personal, in a way. It comforted Bruce, and he allowed himself this one, small comfort. 

Bruce had a couple of spots he’d go to meditate. The foremost requirement for a good meditation spot was that it was _quiet_. The second was that it was private, and the third was that was it was safe. Bruce did not have many places that met all three requirements (not that he allowed himself to dwell on this thought very often). The manor usually fit two of the three requirements, and the Watchtower at least the first. But those statistics weren’t perfect. So Bruce had (in a way) created his own spaces. In the manor, a small patch of floor in his closet that even Alfred left undisturbed. Bruce would simply walk into the space, close the door, shut off the lights, and sink into a cross-legged position to meditate. Or, there was the cave, with its many nooks and crannies and corners (some, a lot actually, unexplored by his children) in which Bruce could retreat to for some quiet time. If he was desperate enough, he could even retreat to his room on the Watchtower. 

But surprisingly, he had found his favorite meditation spot by complete accident. It had happened after a particularly grueling league mission and post-op meeting. They had been in one of the smaller, less-used meeting rooms. Actually, Bruce recalled, that room had been designed for meetings with government officials, or other important guests of the Justice League, because it had one of the best views in the Watchtower, and was a bit less spartan than the rest of the Watchtower. 

They had had the meeting in there simply because it was closer to the docking station and teleports, and everyone, Bruce included, had been too tired to go farther. Also, it had been the founders plus a few junior members, so it felt unnecessary to open up the full meeting room. The meeting had gone on, and Bruce for the life of him could not remember it now, as he had been in _so many_ other league meetings by now (and more important ones, too). But he remembered the feeling after. He had been the last in the room, and recalled how absolutely _tense_ he’d felt. Clark had been arguing with him, and Diana too, and the mission had not been completely successful. Bruce remembered how much he’d wanted to meditate. And then he’d taken a breath, looked up from his papers, and taken in the view. 

There were times that Bruce felt extremely lucky that he was him. This did not happen often, but it did happen. Going up to the Watchtower the first time, that was one of them. Looking out that meeting room’s window, that had been another. Bruce had stood by the window, and watched Earth spin below him, the planet’s lights like so many small fireflies, the stars like distant pinpricks, and he’d felt small, felt himself almost snap into place within the universe. Bruce remembered thinking about the science and chemistry that made up the universe, and of all the astounding parts of this planet, this solar system, this galaxy, and feeling _better_. 

Absently then, he’d locked the door (programming it to open for emergencies only), shut off the lights, and made his way to the window by light of the stars. He’d sunk to the floor, closed his eyes, and breathed. It had turned out to be one of his most-peaceful meditations ever. After that, he’d used the place more and more frequently, as needed. To date, nobody had found out. 

Of course, like most good things in Bruce’s life, it couldn’t last. It was one day, after a _very_ stressful week, that Bruce decided to utilize the meeting room again. He’d wrapped up a week’s-long drug smuggling case, and then proceeded to fight with both Jason and Damian (two of his most stubborn children) and he’d had to attend a gala two nights ago. On top of that, he’d just had a (grueling) monthly finance meeting with the league’s founders. So Bruce, by the end of it, could feel the tension and stress buzzing in his bones. He’d known, even as the others were gathering their things and wrapping up, that he would stay behind. Bruce had made the excuse of typing up notes of their meeting (he recorded them, and usually transcribed them later) or of needing to do last-minute edits to the budget based off the meeting. The others had accepted this, because that was what Batman did, and left. Bruce had waited a few minutes just in case, and then shut the door (not bothering to lock it since it was the weekend) and turned off the lights. 

And wasn’t it just his luck that that was the day Clark forgot something in the meeting room. 

Bruce had been settled in for probably about ten or fifteen minutes, and his breathing was steady and his heartrate low and even. Meditation, to an outsider, could look like sleep (and sometimes even felt like it). But Bruce knew the difference between the two. It had merely been a deep meditation, and a much-needed one. But Clark had come in, because he’d forgotten something, and had seen the lights off, and _heard_ Bruce’s heartrate, and been concerned. Naturally, because the big blue boy scout did not _need_ to meditate, and he was concerned. Clark had flown to Bruce’s side, crouched down, and touched his arm. “Bruce?” he’d asked. 

Bruce had blinked, and looked at Clark’s concerned face, and had wanted to snarl. But he did not, because that was the annoyance, the stress, talking, and Clark was his best friend. “Yes?” he’d asked, as calmly as he could. Clark had looked at him like he had grown a third eye. 

“What are you doing down here? Are you okay?” he had asked, probably thinking Bruce had fallen asleep, or was hurt. Or both. 

Bruce had swallowed his scorn, _It was just meditation, no need to be dramatic_ , and said, “I’m fine, Clark. No need to get your cape in a twist. I was just... meditating.” And in that moment, Bruce had realized that he had never actually said those words aloud to anyone else before. 

Clark had looked at him inquisitively again, head slightly cocked, and repeated, “Meditating? I— I wasn’t aware you did that.” 

Bruce had huffed a little, annoyed at the unspoken implications, and at the interruption, and said a bit harshly, “Well, I do because it works. To de-stress.” 

Clark had looked surprised for a moment, then blinked in understanding. A weird sort of pity. “Oh,” he’d merely said. And then he’d settled in next to Bruce without asking. Bruce had managed to meditate, but it felt like trying to sleep with a thousand pins pricking one’s skin. He’d been quietly angry for the next few days, after that. 

And then, like with so many other things in his life that involved Clark, he pushed further. 

Clark was Bruce’s best friend, there was no denying that. Clark was _good_ for Bruce in many ways, with his determination, his caring, his stubbornness. Bruce sometimes felt like a neglected plant, around Clark, a plant that was slowly nurtured back into (moderately) good health, and blossomed. Clark’s patience, too, helped Bruce become better. Nicer. Open up more. _Heal_ some, even. But, there were also times that these same qualities were infuriating. 

Bruce was naturally an introvert. Clark, naturally, an extrovert. Occasionally, the best thing for Bruce to do, was, actually, to be alone. Clark called this ‘anti-socialness’ and would pester Bruce and not give him the _space_ or _time_ he needed. Over the years (after a few rather _spectacular_ lectures, as well) he’d learned and gotten better at knowing when to leave Bruce be, and when to interfere. But, Clark wasn’t perfect. So he still occasionally made mistakes. Like how he handled the whole meditation thing. 

After the first time, Clark seemed to think meditation was a _group_ activity and invited himself to join Bruce whenever he was on the tower at the same time as Bruce and wasn’t too busy. Bruce grew quietly more and more annoyed, and _sad_ even, that this perfect, quiet, reflective space could not just be _his_. Because in reality, Bruce did not allow himself very many treasured personal things. This space, and time within it, had been one of them. So eventually, he’d mostly abandoned it, and Clark had stopped bothering him. Yet, sometimes he would still try. And Clark would be right back, like a goddamned magnet. 

Eventually, Bruce had snapped. Oh, he did not like confronting Clark (he _always_ had a good reason when he did so) because Clark was such a good friend, much better than Bruce deserved. But this was too much. Bruce feared, that if he did not put a stop to it, Clark would invade the rest of his meditation sessions, which Bruce _needed_ too much to allow him to do. Or _worse_ , perhaps Clark would share his secret with the league. So after a solid month without using his favorite space, Bruce had checked Clark’s schedule and come up to the Watchtower deliberately when Superman was not there to use the room. He’d even gotten in a peaceful forty minutes or so before he showed up. 

Clark had slid onto the ground besides Bruce like it was natural, and murmured a quiet, “Hello.” 

Bruce, seething, had said nothing. He’d managed a fitful ten minutes after that. And then, he’d sighed quietly, adjusted his position so it’d be easier to leave if needed (it often was after an argument with Clark) and opened his eyes. Clark, listening in, _damnit_ , had opened his eyes and _smiled_ at Bruce. On top of that, he’d looked relaxed. Bruce had sighed once more, and opened his mouth, unable to stop the flood of words, and emotion, from pouring out. When it rained in Bruce’s head, his heart— his brain-to-mouth filter broke— it _poured_. 

“Clark,” he’d said simply. “Do you know why I meditate? Stress. I am… not a _relaxed_ person, I am not a _talkative_ person naturally, and if I were, I couldn’t talk about my life much anyway… I meditate because I am stressed, and meditation is a good way— the _best_ way— for me to de-stress. Which I need. Both from a psychological standpoint and from a physiological standpoint. There have been studies… Anyway, do you know what meditation is?” 

Clark had looked startled as the full weight of Bruce’s gaze landed on him. He looked like a kid who had fallen asleep in class, or who had been called on unexpectedly. “Uh,” he said. Bruce huffed, and stared very pointedly at him. 

“Meditation,” Bruce had said slowly, “is a _solitary_ activity. It is used for _personal reflection_ and as a healing space for _one_ person. It is not a group or team activity. So please understand, while I like you just fine, I—” 

“You want me to leave,” Clark said, managing to sound dejected and understanding at the same time. 

Bruce took a deep breath, not realizing that he’d been holding one in, and said, “Yes. Just for— I need this, Clark. For myself. For the sake of not going crazy. For my children.” 

Clark had nodded, already standing. “Sure, I get it. I won’t bother you again,” he’d said, sounding perfectly understanding. Bruce had offered him a small apologetic, relieved smile. 

“Thank you,” he’d said. Clark had nodded, headed to the door, and left. 

Later, Clark sent him a box of apology chocolates and a mortified-sounding note. Bruce had given him another talking-to (this time more explanatory, and _nicer_ ) and they’d resolved things. 

And after that, Bruce was able continue his meditation in perfect silence, safety, and solitude as he sat in front of the humbling sight of his home-planet spinning beneath him.


	17. Vacation One-Shot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce is stressed. By a mutiny of Clark, Alfred, and Leslie, he and Selina get sent on vacation. To his private island. Selina is only too happy to keep an eye on her tired Bat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I roast women's fashion magazines in this (no idea if the leather thing is true-- most likely not). If you like 'em, that's fine. I generally don't.

Selina Kyle and Bruce Wayne were on vacation. They were on vacation at Bruce’s private island. It was hot, humid, and lush; Bruce had only developed enough land for a house, and a slice of manicured beach. The rest of the island was still verdant, shady jungle. The orders of one Alfred Pennyworth, Leslie Thompkins, and Clark Kent had been what had sent them off. 

All parties agreed that one Bruce Wayne was entirely too overworked and overstressed, especially after this last case (dangerous space bacteria the league had encountered that Batman had spent literal days finding an antibacterial for). Selina tended to agree with this assessment, and if it got her one-on-one time with Bruce, alone… well. She wasn’t going to argue against a vacation. She smiled at her magazine, and flipped the page. Around her, the sound of the ocean created a peaceful rhythm and the heat was kept at ‘pleasant’ and not ‘oppressive’ because of the slight breeze and her large beach umbrella, which shaded her lounge chair. Selina took a sip of her lemonade and lazily flicked the page again. 

Only the quiet swish of sand gave him away. Bruce, in nothing but black swim trunks, perched at the edge of her lounge chair. “What are you reading?” he asked. Selina hid her smile behind a sip of lemonade and scooted over a bit. Bruce took her invitation and swung his legs onto the chair and reclined. He did not, as was typical, swing one arm around her shoulders (it was too hot) but Selina smiled openly at him anyway. 

“Mm. Nothing important. Did you know that it’s in bad taste to wear leather at the workplace?” she quipped. 

Bruce hummed from beside her. Selina flicked her gaze over, and saw him staring out at the ocean. Her amusement faltered. “Hey now,” she said, running a hand through his hair. The attention-getting strategy worked. He turned to look at her, almost leaning into the touch. Selina would have laughed if he had not looked so tired. 

“Hey now,” she said again, more softly. 

“Hm?” Bruce inquired, relaxing a bit more. He almost sounded sleepy. Selina kept carding her fingers through his soft hair. 

“You’re supposed to be relaxing, Bruce. Shut off that big brain of yours for a minute. Let me share the secrets of women’s fashion with you,” Selina said. 

Bruce blinked slowly, and let out a yawn. “Fascinating. Do tell me more,” he teased gently. 

“Alright then. Here’s ‘Ten Things You Didn’t Know About Plaid,’” she began. Bruce snorted sleepily as she continued to absently run her hand through his hair. 

After a few minutes, Selina noticed the slightly-too-hot weight at her side. She stopped reading, and smirked quietly. Bruce was pressed against her, head practically resting on her shoulder. His body was slack, as it only ever could be when his brain wasn’t busy whirring away; the only other time he was like this was after really good sex. Selina pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, which caused his nose to wrinkle. 

Then Bruce shifted a bit, so he was on his side and unconsciously flung his arm across Selina. She huffed, a bit annoyed at the heat, but when she went to push his arm away, Bruce made a soft whine of protest. “Fine, you big baby,” Selina whispered in mock-irritation. Bruce settled down after this. Selina could feel the cool exhales of his breath against her shoulder, and the soft, ticklish brushes of his eyelashes. 

Bruce murmured something in his sleep and Selina set aside her magazine with a sigh. No use reading with Bruce acting like a weighted blanket. She pressed another quick kiss to the top of his head, which didn’t even disturb him this time, and said, “Sweet dreams, B.” Selina adjusted slightly so she was more comfortable, then turned her eyes towards the crystalline waves of the ocean.


	18. In the Back of A Limo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a frustrating, useless meeting with Lex Luthor and Lexcorp in Metropolis, Bruce and Alfred face a long drive back to Gotham. Bruce discusses (vents) with Alfred on recent events, i.e. the meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey. I'm alive. Yes, I know it's been a while since I last updated anything, but updates will be coming soon(ish). I just got done with school, and have been insanely busy recently. But, I have some free time now, so, yeah. Just be patient a little bit longer. Thanks!!!

“Mr. Wayne! Mr. Wayne! What was the nature of your meeting with Mr. Luthor?” 

“Over here, Mr. Wayne!” 

“Sir, do you have anything to say about Wayne Enterprise’s future ventures?” Bright flashes of light accompanied each question, as if adding rather dramatic punctuation to them. Bruce smiled— the one Alfred and the boys said gave him a bit of the ‘uncanny valley’ effect, but seemed to work on everyone else— before walking easily (or at least hoping he did, with the sprained ankle and all) toward the waiting limo. 

“Sorry,” Bruce said cheerfully, “I’m afraid I’ve got no time for questions at the moment. You’ll have to talk to my PR people for information when it’s available. I’m late for a date— with a reporter from the _Daily Planet_. Excuse me.” Bruce threw in a salacious wink for good measure and slid easily into the back of the waiting limo. 

“Welcome back, Sir. I do hope your meeting with Lexcorp was informative,” Alfred commented. 

Bruce sighed, and ran a frustrated hand through his hair, which broke the gel’s hold on it. His carefully crafted style was ruined, leaving his hair to fall more naturally, a little messily, even. Bruce paid this no attention, looking lost in thought for a moment, and quite exhausted. He slumped back against the cool, smooth leather of the limousine seat and fiddled with the end of his tie. 

“Oh, it was informative alright, Alfred. Just not the type of information Batman needs. I’m afraid we’ve driven to Metropolis for nothing, this time,” Bruce grumbled. With another sigh, he fidgeted out of his suit jacket and stared out the window. Unnoticed by Bruce, Alfred quirked an eyebrow in the front seat. 

“Well, I am sure there is something of use to be gained by this meeting with Luthor. Perhaps Master Clark will be able to see something you cannot, Sir.” 

“Hm,” Bruce agreed idly, still staring out at the slowly passing traffic. 

As Alfred put on the brakes, it started to rain. Big drops splatted against the limo’s windows and rolled downwards. Another glance back showed that Bruce seemed to be absorbed by this natural phenomena. Alfred let the quiet sit, as Bruce no longer seemed tense. The only sounds were of the car’s efficient engine, the rain drumming against the vehicle, and the exterior background noises of traffic. With a slight sigh, Alfred turned his gaze back to the road ahead as the stream of cars began to move forward once more. It was looking like the drive back from Metropolis would take the full hour after all. Pity. 

As they crawled forward slowly, Bruce felt a sharp stab of regret for making Alfred drive him all the way to Metropolis. He should’ve just taken one of the sports cars and driven himself and stayed the night; it’d been a while since Bruce Wayne had seen to the night life around Metropolis anyway. But, he supposed, it was too late for that now. He drummed his fingers against the cool seat, reflecting back on the meeting. Of course, once again, Luthor had tried to schmooze Bruce into some shady deal, this time involving a potential military contract. As he’d done before, Bruce had reminded Luthor that W.E. didn’t do military, didn’t do weapons. And things had fallen apart from there. Nothing new was learned— at least, nothing that the League would deem important; Luthor was always after some military contract or another, after all. It felt like a supremely taxing waste of time. And now the press would be expecting an announcement. And Clark was waiting in the manor for an update. 

Bruce adjusted his seat unconsciously, and winced a little as he hit his left ankle on the back of the seat. That had been a gift from Penguin last week, during a bust gone wrong. That didn’t happen too often, these days, not with all the boys plus Oracle and Batgirl and Black Bat around. But, as evidenced by his ankle, it did happen. Sometimes. Bruce leaned farther back against the seat and pulled out his phone to check for any updates. Nothing relevant; the notification that Tim was trending again on Twitter turned out to be nothing, just people curious about what his favorite Starbucks drink was, for some reason. With a sigh, Bruce put away his phone and went back to staring out the window. The sound of the rain was oddly peaceful, and it felt like something he needed. He blinked heavily as he watched a rather large raindrop finally rush down the window and out of sight… 

Alfred pulled up the gravel drive to Wayne Manor and gently brought the car to a stop. Normally, Bruce would already be unbuckled and getting out of the car after a quick ‘thank you.’ But, Alfred highly doubted that would be happening this time, as the man had fallen asleep about fifteen minutes after leaving Metropolis. It was rather foolish of him, for it meant he was not sleeping when he should be. Yet, the English butler was glad that Bruce had gotten some rest, even if it wasn’t as much (or where) he needed it. 

So, soundlessly, Alfred put the vehicle in park and opened his door. Slowly, he circled the car and, once he’d reached the back door, gently opened it. Thankfully, it had stopped raining, or Alfred Pennyworth would have been quite wet. As it was, he was a bit chilly in the evening air and had no desire to stand out here longer than needed. With that, he firmly cleared his throat. When that did not work, he called out, “Master Bruce. We have arrived home, Sir.” 

Bruce jolted awake, then looked quite sheepish for his actions. He glanced around a moment, as if getting his bearings, then seemed to notice Alfred standing with his door open, waiting. “Oh! Sorry, Al. I’ll get out of your way in a moment. Is Clark here yet?” he asked. 

Alfred stifled his amusement, and replied, “Yes, Sir. Master Clark, I believe, should be waiting in the study, unless an emergency has called him away. I shall park the car and then be in to bring refreshments.” Bruce nodded, quickly sliding out of the back seat. 

“Right. Thank you, Alfred,” he said. Alfred nodded, already walking around to the front of the car. As he sat, and closed the door, he watched Bruce awkwardly amble up the rest of the drive and disappear through the stately front doors. Ah yes, that sprained ankle. He’d quite forgotten that. Unfortunate, really; he would have pulled up closer to the house if he’d remembered. Or if a certain, stubborn man would only have reminded him. 

Though Master Wayne had not been a boy for a long time (longer than he cared to remember), Alfred still found himself muttering, “That boy,” out of fond frustration as he drove the limo towards the garage.


	19. (We’re Stuck in a) Ice (Cave), Ice (Cave), Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman and Superman get (intentionally) stuck in a ice cave while on an off-world mission. On top of all that? Bruce has alien pneumonia. Sounds like this will end well...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long fic!!! I just couldn't stop myself; you've been warned.

With a _thud_ , Bruce sinks to the ice-cave floor and rips off the cowl. He drops it to the ground next to him. After a few gasping breaths, he leans his head against the cave wall, despite the sharp, biting cold of it (which actually feels nice, upon further reflection). They have just barely gotten away from the hostiles, and the suit is not exactly light on the best of days… let alone when he needs to race around through icy wastelands, in snow that reaches up mid-shin. 

And now that he _is_ thinking about it, he feels inordinately _warm_ in the suit. Which is concerning, because the last time he’d checked, it was no more than 15 degrees Fahrenheit outside. Even with all his activity, and the suit’s thermal insulation and padding, Bruce should not be feeling warm, or anything even close to it. But he is. Bruce notes, in his mental catalogue of symptoms and/or injuries, that it is hard to breathe, too. _Damnit_. 

“Well… it… seems like we… finally outran them. Batman? B?” Superman asks, panting slightly (which is never a good sign). 

Bruce keeps his gaze pointed at the cave entrance in case any wandering soldiers find their trail. Though he doubts it, with the blizzard raging outside. Still, never hurts to be cautious… He can still hear his own breathing, and he’s _wheezing_. Fuck. 

“B? You okay?” Clark asks sharply. He sounds concerned. Bruce yanks his focus away from the (annoying) rattle in his chest and glances over at Superman; before their escape, he’d been exposed to a small amount of red sunlight, and probably Kryptonite as well. _Some diplomatic mission this has turned out to be_ , he thinks bitterly. 

“Yes, I’m fine. Are _you?_ ” Bruce asks. 

This seems to work to distract the other man. Superman frowns, looking slightly irritated. But, for once, the ire is not directed at Batman. “Yes, I’m fine. They didn’t even hit me with that much red sunlight. Or green K. Amateurs,” he spits. Sharp laughter bursts out of Bruce. He can’t help himself— it is always funny seeing Clark get so _bitter_ over the smallest things. Bruce sometimes forgets he isn’t the only one who can be petty. 

Unfortunately, his laughter soon turns into a wheezing coughing fit, albeit a short one. But it is enough to focus Superman’s gaze on him again, and it is enough to make the other man lean forward, to put a hand on Bruce’s forehead. Bruce grips Clark’s hand in his gloved one, certain that it is not a good idea to let him feel how feverish he feels— and that’s what he is, Bruce admits angrily to himself. It would distract Clark from the other things that need to be done. And there are other things that need to be done, quickly. Bruce suspects that he’ll be getting worse before (if) he gets better. So best to prepare now while he’s still (mostly) functional. 

“I’m _fine_ , Clark. We’re going to be here for a while, unless you have a way to get the comms. working, so we’ve got things to do.” Superman rolls his eyes, huffing once in exasperation, and seems to conclude that Bruce is okay, or at least okay enough for now. He gently tugs his hand away from Bruce and stands again. 

“If you say so,” Clark says, sounding a bit doubtful, “now, what do you suggest we do first?” Bruce rolls his eyes, but sits up, one hand already on his belt. _At least he hasn’t asked me to move yet._

**…**

After Clark builds the fire, Bruce requests that he hand over his comm. so he can take both of their devices apart, and see if there is a way to configure a new working one from the remaining scavenged bits of the others. This is because out of the two of them, Bruce is easily the more tech-savvy. But it’s also because he doesn’t fancy having to move around too much; the earlier _warm_ feeling has bloomed, and now he is uncomfortably hot. 

That heat, which seems to radiate from his forehead, melting his eyeballs, also makes it difficult to concentrate. Bruce notices that his hands are shaking a little, and upon further reflection, how _weak_ his muscles feel. _Damn it._ He’s definitely caught something. From the wheezing in his chest, he suspects it might be an alien virus, or even some version of pneumonia. His chest is definitely rattling, and aching. Shit. 

Thankfully, Clark hasn’t noticed his predicament yet, as he’s too busy boiling some water and preparing the sleeping bags. Also, he appears to be under the impression that Bruce needs absolute, undisturbed peace to work— which is not _entirely_ untrue— and so leaves him alone. However, after another (seeming) eternity, Bruce acknowledges that in his current state, he won’t be unable to get the comms. back into working order. At least the homing beacons don’t seem to be too damaged; he, or Clark, will most likely be able to reconfigure those. 

But now it feels entirely too hot in the small cavern, so Bruce subtly (or at least, as subtly as he can, in a small space with a man who can literally hear cells dividing) unfastens his cape and sets it next to the cowl and gloves. He wipes a few beads of sweat from his forehead. When he lays a bare hand on the (shockingly) cold cavern floor, he can’t suppress the full-body shiver that runs through him, despite his body’s earlier conviction that Bruce is roasting. _Damn damn damn_. 

“Bruce?” Clark calls, looking over his shoulder. 

Bruce scowls. This is the last thing they need right now. He curses the human immune system with all his might. _Fuck it._ “What, Clark?” he barks. Another shiver passes through him, and Bruce grinds his teeth. He works to control the shiver that follows it, and the next one too. Clark notices this, and narrows his eyes. 

“Are you cold?” 

“No. I’m f-fine,” Bruce says, as another shiver interrupts him. He wishes it would be a rational thing to ask Clark to put out the fire. Or to use his ice breath on him. But it isn’t. Clark is by his side in an instant, which distracts Bruce from how miserable he’s feeling. Mostly. Despite his best efforts, another shiver wracks his body. Clark mutters something under his breath and suddenly, holds a hand up to Bruce’s forehead. Bruce jumps at the uncomfortable contact, and curses himself for it a moment later. 

“Damnit, Bruce. You’re burning up!” Clark exclaims. 

“I-I kn-know! It must h-have been something I was exp-posed to earlier,” Bruce stutters. Clark frowns again, and Bruce tries his best not to snarl. It isn’t like he’d _wanted_ to critically endanger the mission by catching alien pneumonia. Not that he can tell Clark that that is what he thinks he’s come down with. That would only serve to freak Clark out. And at least one of them need to be level-headed for (if) when they’re rescued. He sighs. 

“Do you have a thermometer in that belt of yours?” Clark asks. 

Bruce nods, reaching into the right compartment. He stuffs it in his mouth. They wait in silence for a few moments until it beeps. Before he can do anything, Clark has gently plucked it from Bruce’s mouth. “Shit. You really are burning up, it’s at 102! Bruce, you should have said something,” Clark lectures. 

Bruce shivers again, and reaches for the first of the clasps on the upper portion of the suit. He can feel himself sweating more. Even knowing that he’s not really on fire doesn’t help when his body is telling him so. Bruce feels annoyed at how his fingers fumble— he needs to _get out_ of the damn suit or he’ll fry himself. Clark grasps his hands firmly, stopping him. 

“Let me go. I n-need to take this off,” Bruce growls. 

Superman does not release his grip. “I don’t want you freezing to death either, B. We have no idea how cold it’ll get here later,” he snaps. 

Bruce rolls his eyes, pushing uselessly, stubbornly, against Superman’s hold. “Well then, why don’t we eliminate that variable. Go collapse the cavern opening. It’s not like we’re getting rescued from here for a while anyway. I need to get this suit off, Clark,” Bruce mutters. What he doesn’t say is, _I feel like I’m roasting alive in here_. 

Clark opens his mouth for a moment, then shuts it, and frowns. After another moment of contemplation, he lets go of Bruce’s hands and stands. “Fine!” he snaps, striding over to the cave entrance, “But if this turns out to be a terrible idea, you can’t blame me.” He lets out an annoyed puff of air before looking thoughtfully at the cave entrance. 

Then, with all the ease of the world (well, one of them anyway), Superman angles his head slightly upward and twin beams of bright red energy stream out from his eyes. There is a great _cracking_ sound, and then a loud thunderous _boom_ as tons of ice come crashing down, sealing in the two heroes. After the shaking has stopped, Superman hovers around the now-collapsed area, scanning it. “It looks like the structure is undamaged. And we still have airflow from the outside as well. That’s all I’m doing for now— I don’t want to bring the ceiling in on our heads— until I’ve recovered more. Now, let’s get you sorted out,” he says. 

Bruce, who’s been quiet until now, scowls. He’d paused all activity while Superman caused the (small) cave-in, just in case, and is only halfway out of the top part of the suit. He resumes his work and is soon free, dropping the suit top to the floor with a _clunk_. The cold cave air feels wonderful, but also like a shock. He shivers. 

Clark is hovering worriedly, watching his progress. Bruce scowls, only imaging how he looks right now. He can feel his cheeks flushing, and knows he’s shivering. “Quit worrying, Clark. I’ll be fine,” Bruce lectures. Clark rolls his eyes. 

“Right. When have I heard that before?” he asks sarcastically. 

“Hn,” Bruce growls, turning back to the suit. He still feels too hot, and if his temperature goes up more, it won’t be good. He tugs off a boot, and sets it next to the suit top with a _thunk_. 

**…**

After a while, Bruce has removed the rest of the suit, which is now piled near a corner of the small cavern, and has stripped down to his t-shirt, under-suit spandex, and socks. He sits against the ice wall, farther from the fire than Clark probably thinks he should. At least he isn’t shivering now. But that probably isn’t too good of a sign either. Bruce swallows, feeling thirsty. He takes another rattling breath. A glance to the side reveals that Clark is sitting close to the fire, arms crossed, resting easily on his knees. His brow is furrowed, and he watches the small, compactable metal bowl (from Bruce’s utility belt) carefully. It contains a chunk of melting ice. 

Bruce swallows again, and glances longingly at the bits of icy rubble by the collapsed cave opening. He isn’t sure how steady on his feet he’ll be, but it’s worth a shot. He can feel himself sweating again, and the world is beginning to feel a bit mushy. Not good. 

Clumsily, he stands, and has to slap a hand against the cave wall for balance. Fuck, that is _really_ not good. He takes one swaying step forward before a pair of icy hands grasp both of his shoulders. Bruce startles, one aching shiver running down his spine. “Christ, Bruce! Sit down,” Clark says. 

Unfortunately, Bruce can’t protest too much because he feels as if his legs have liquified. He sits, and lays his head against the cave wall. Bruce takes another rattling breath in and closes his eyes. “I need ice, or water. Something to cool off,” he requests, wheezing. In an instant, Superman has a small pile of ice chunks next to Bruce’s side. As he reaches over for them, he coughs. 

“Let me check your lungs, Bruce,” Clark interrupts. He crouches down next to Bruce, looking determined. Bruce glares. _This is not good. Clark cannot be distracted because of him if they are going to be stuck here_. 

“Not right now,” Clark looks like he’s going to protest, so Bruce glares at him, and says firmly, “Clark. If we don’t get my temperature down, I _will_ start to hallucinate. My lungs can wait. Now go get that water, and cool it down for me.” Clark shuts his mouth, stands up stiffly, and turns away. Bruce stuffs a few chunks of ice into his socks, biting down on the yelp he wants to let out at the temperature difference. 

Clark returns with the pot of steaming water. “One sec,” he mutters, turning away from Bruce. Carefully, he blows on it, until it’s no longer steaming. He dips a pinky in it. 

“Is it cold?” Bruce asks, trying to keep the grimace out of his voice. 

“Yes,” Clark replies, sounding slightly petulant. 

“Good. Pour it on me,” Bruce says. Clark hesitates. Bruce scowls. “Goddamnit, Clark. You think I like this anymore than you? Pour it on m—” Bruce splutters as his head, and shoulders, and torso are drenched. He looks balefully up at Clark, and shivers violently. After another moment, he’s composed himself, and glares at Clark, who has his lips pressed together, trying not to laugh. Bruce says dryly, “A little warning, next time.” Clark laughs. 

“You wish, Bruce,” he says. Bruce shivers. “Bruce?” Clark asks. 

“I’m f-fine,” he snaps, shivering again, “just adj-justing.” 

“Okay,” Clark says, sinking to the ground. He leaves only a few inches between them. Bruce feels ridiculous, with the contrast between Clark, who is in full uniform, and himself, only in underclothes, with dripping hair. He gives into the desire to cross his arms over his chest. He can feel Clark’s gaze on him, but ignores it. They sit in silence like this for several minutes more. Until Bruce swallows his dry tongue. And shivers. 

“Do you want my cape?” Clark asks. 

Bruce scowls. “N- no. I don’t want your c-cape. If I wa-wanted a cape, I’d get my own.” 

“Do you want me to blow on you?” 

“N- no. I don’t want your ice breath anywhere n-near me.” 

“You didn’t seem to object earlier.” 

“You weren’t blowing directly _on me_ earlier, Clark.” 

“… Do you want—” 

“NO! I’m f-fine. Stop fucking asking.” Bruce turns his gaze away. He clenches his hands into fists and resists the urge to scoot closer to his (warm) friend. He needs to cool down more, and cuddling Clark will not help that. Or his dignity. 

“I was _going_ to ask if you wanted any water,” Clark says, sounding huffy. Bruce feels a small pang of regret, at that. But he still rolls his eyes. 

“Sure. Thank you.” 

“And then, you’re going to let me check your lungs, B.” 

“Clark—” 

“Bruce, goddamnit, _you are going to let me check your lungs_ because if there were nothing wrong you wouldn’t be protesting this much!” Clark snaps. Bruce shuts his mouth, and growls. 

“Fine. Now hurry up with that water. I’m going to get dehydrated if you lecture me any longer.” 

Though Clark has his back turned, Bruce can feel his eye roll. “No you’re not. If you were even close to getting dehydrated, you wouldn’t waste time bitching at me,” he says slyly. 

Despite himself, Bruce snorts. “Goddamnit, Clark!” He clamps a hand over his mouth, to deny Clark the satisfaction of hearing him laugh again, but it doesn’t work; he is tired, perhaps a bit delusional from fever, and too easily amused by Clark Kent. It also doesn’t help that his best friend has super hearing, and has no qualms about using it for personal reasons. 

“I can still hear you laughing, Bruce,” Clark says. Bruce laughs until he starts coughing again. This erases the teasing from Clark’s face, and his gaze sharpens. He sets the now-cool water down next to Bruce and crouches in front of him. Bruce tightens his crossed-arms. 

Clark scowls. He tugs once at Bruce’s arms, and gives him a pleading look. With a (squeaky) sigh, and an eye roll, Bruce parts his arms, letting them drop to the cool floor. “Thank you,” Clark mutters distractedly. Bruce holds still, despite his prickling discomfort, knowing that Superman is looking _inside_ him, and can see exactly how human (how breakable) Bruce really is. 

“Like I had any choice,” he mutters bitterly. Clark looks hurt in response. Bruce does his best to ignore the wounded look (and the regret it causes him). 

Clark hisses, after a moment, “Shit, B. Your lungs—” 

“I know,” Bruce says, with forced calm. “I didn’t want you to worry. We had to get some kind of shelter ready first.” 

Clark sighs. “Well, I don’t know if it is pneumonia, but it sure as hell looks like it. Is there anyway to get the comms. working again?” he asks. 

Now feeling genuinely cold, Bruce answers, “No. N-not that I could find. But the hom-homing beacons seemed like they could be repaired. You’ll have to do it though, I-I’m shaking too much to do an-anything right now.” Clark frowns deeply, and looks worried. He closes his eyes for a moment and sighs loudly, and slowly. 

“You should have said something, Bruce,” he says quietly. 

Bruce snaps, “When? When, exactly, should I have said something, Clark? When we were running out of the city? When we were fighting the assassins? Oh! I know. When we were running through the blizzard, before trapping ourselves in a goddamned cave!” He breaks into a coughing fit, and shivers. Clark, who’d been about to argue back (and people say _Batman_ is the stubborn one), looks even more concerned. _Like a kicked puppy_ , Bruce thinks. 

His hand, now actually feeling _good_ against Bruce’s too-cool flesh, rests under Bruce’s chin. Bruce goes to bat it away, but Clark’s other (super-strong) hand restrains him. He moves the original hand up to Bruce’s forehead, and seems to release some of his tension. “I think your fever has gone down some. You should get some rest,” he says gently. And though Bruce is tired, feeling the kind of fatigue only illness can bring on, he resents Clark’s mothering. 

“We need to f-figure out h-how to fix the homing beacons on the c-comms.,” he snaps, moving away from Clark. Clark just rolls his eyes and huffs. He hauls Bruce to his feet, and catches him when he shakes too much to stand. 

“ _I_ need to figure out how to fix the comms.,” he says, “ _you_ need to rest, B.” Bruce plans on protesting again, but he shivers, and really does feel exhausted. Clark practically wraps him in one of the sleeping bags and leads him (gently) over to the fire. Bruce sits, blinking heavily. He’s grown used to his wheezing, but it seems to bother Clark. Bruce lies down, and does not _groan_ at how much better it is, with the sleeping bag. 

“Wake me in a few hours, to make sure I don’t get feverish again under this,” he says softly, eyes already shut. Bruce doesn’t even wait for confirmation from Clark. 

**…**

The next thing he knows, Bruce is being shaken awake. “B. B, wake up. You should get dressed,” Clark says. 

Bruce blinks, feeling muddle-headed. Clark half-pulls him into a sitting position and hands him the bowl of water. Bruce downs half of it before wiping his mouth, and coughing into his arm. “What time is it?” he asks, surprised at how scratchy his voice is. His breath catches wetly in his chest, and it reminds him of when he climbed mountains as part of his league training. He’s definitely worse than before. _Fantastic_. 

Clark sets the bits of his suit down next to him, not quite meeting his gaze. “Never mind that, Bruce. Hal and Barry should be here in about five or ten minutes. Unless you want them talking, _you_ need to get suited up again,” he says. 

Bruce sits up, shoving away Clark’s hands, which are trying to press pieces of the suit at him, as if he’s some sort of invalid. “I don't care about that, Clark. _I asked you: 'how long was I out for?'_ ” 

Clark averts his gaze, and Bruce thinks absently, _It’s a good thing Clark doesn’t twist his cape like that in public_. “It’s been eight hours, Bruce.” 

Bruce blinks. “Eight hours! I could’ve gotten feverish again, you should have—” 

“I _checked_ you for fever, Bruce!” Clark snaps. Bruce freezes. Clark had touched him, when he was sleeping, and he hadn’t even stirred. Clark seems to know what Bruce is thinking because he continues, “And you didn’t even move, that’s how exhausted you were. If you’d had a fever again, I _would_ have woken you up. Now get dressed, I can hear GL and Flash coming.” He turns away, collecting gear. Bruce actually feels a bit bad, for a moment. But then, he _had_ asked Clark to wake him up. 

Silently cursing this damn ice planet, his sore muscles, alien pneumonia, and aliens in general (well okay, not _all_ aliens, just these ones), Bruce pulls on the Batsuit. Just as he’s pulled the cowl on, a massive quake goes through the ice barrier. Hal Jordan’s head appears through a small hole. He peers around the cave with apparent interest, before focusing on Superman. “Hey, Supes,” he says casually, “somebody call for a rescue?” 

Bruce grits his teeth, and tells himself not to cough. He coughs. Hal’s focus shifts to him. He grins knowingly. “And Spooky! My favorite guy. I bet you’re ready to get out of here,” he says. 

Bruce grits his teeth but says nothing. “Enough! Get out of the way, Hal. Go tell Barry to get the Javelin ready for transport,” Clark snaps. Hal’s grin fades, but he throws one last superior look at Bruce, who smirks. 

“Alright, I’m going,” he says easily. 

“Bruce,” Clark warns. 

“I heard you the first time,” Bruce snaps, and then adds, before he can really think about it, “I’m ready to get the hell off this ice ball.” 

Clark snorts. “Just for that, I’m naming my next mission report, ‘The Adventure on Hoth 2.0,’” he says. 

“Don’t you dare,” Bruce snaps. Clark chuckles. When he stops, Bruce automatically takes a step back. Clark hits the ice blockade with heat vision, melting it. But before the wave of now-melted water can hit them, he freezes it. Bruce works hard to maintain his normal, steady heartrate. Clark floats over, and cheerfully picks up one of the bags. Bruce grabs the other. “Let’s hope we never have to come here again,” he says. 

As Bruce picks his way over the newly-frozen ice (which is quite slippery), he grumbles, “You’re still not allowed to call this ‘Hoth 2.0’ in your official league mission report, Superman. I’ll delete it if you do.” 

From inside the Javelin, Barry waves. Hal just smirks. “I’m still calling it that unofficially,” Clark mutters. Bruce sighs. But really, he’s more amused than annoyed. As they’re walking into the plane he thinks, _As long as we don’t have to come back here, I really don’t care what the hell you call it, Clark_.


	20. (Tequila) Because You Loved Me, (Tequila) Because You're Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce, a bottle of _El Jimador_ Tequila, and a hotel room in Metropolis.
> 
> "You saw the best there was in me  
> Lifted me up when I couldn't reach  
> You gave me faith 'cause you believed  
> I'm everything I am  
> Because you loved me  
> 
> 
> I'm everything I am  
>  Because you loved me"  
>  — _Because You Loved Me_ , Celine Dion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter is a little different. It's a prompt request from LL. It's such an amazing prompt request that I just had to do it: "Hungover Bruce fic— like Bruce doesn't drink but one time he does, and goes way overboard with it and is hungover for the first time? Can't take care of himself? Hungover and sad?" Chapter title (partly) based on the song, _Because You Loved Me_ by Celine Dion.
> 
> I took it (after doing some slight adaptations) and ran. It... turned out a lot more angsty than you were probably thinking. Although, knowing me, maybe not?

Today is Martha Wayne’s birthday. She would have been 74. But this year is special (as if all her other birthdays weren’t, sanctified as they are by blood in Bruce’s memory). It has been exactly 37 years since she died. This year’s birthday is special because it is also Bruce’s 37th year of living without her, and Martha Wayne had been exactly 37 years old when she and Thomas Wayne were gunned down in Crime Alley. Bruce is eight years older than she ever was— and, in another twist of fate— he was eight when his parents were murdered. Bruce doesn’t like coincidences, or pay heed to omens, but this one does give him pause. It is a double anniversary, of sorts, and seems to call for a different kind of celebration (mourning). So, for once, Bruce heeds the signs. 

He tells Alfred, and Dick, not to expect him out on patrol tonight. Alfred doesn’t lose any of his calm demeanor, though, surely, he is as aware of (if not _more_ ) what day it is. Dick does his best, but his son has never been great at being inconspicuous— hence his _entire career_ as first a pint-sized acrobat, and then, a primary-colored vigilante’s sidekick. Dick merely says, “Sure thing, B” but his _tone_ tells Bruce that Dick knows why Bruce isn’t going on patrol tonight, and his son’s tone tells him to expect the kid-gloves treatment for a while. When Dick leaves, he takes the remaining chunk of Bruce’s stoicism with him. Bruce sighs, and turns back to the computer. Even if he’s taking the night off, crime never stops, nor apparently, does the league; Bruce has seven emails waiting for him in his official Justice League email account. 

Bruce waits until just after six to leave. He’s in no hurry, and had wanted to make sure he could get off without running into too many people. Not that he doesn’t love his children— he does, _immensely_ — but Bruce just does not feel like talking to anyone tonight. Except Alfred, who he needs to talk to. So, just after six, Bruce heads up from the cave (most of his children will be returning to the manor, or getting dinner somewhere, or working on pre-patrol plans) and tells Alfred that he can have the night off (Barbara offered to monitor the comms.) and not to expect Bruce back until sometime tomorrow. 

“I’m going to Clark’s,” Bruce says, keys to his 1999 Porsche 911 Carrera Coupe (a birthday present from Tim last year) in-hand. 

Alfred pauses, dish towel dripping sudsy water, and says, “Very well, Master Bruce. Please convey my well wishes to him. Have a good evening.” 

Bruce smiles tiredly. “Thanks, Al, you too. And I’ll let Clark know you said ‘hello,’” Bruce says. It is a lie. Bruce _is not_ going to Clark’s, and he never planned to. But Bruce _is_ going to Metropolis. 

On anniversaries, Bruce has always liked to be alone, ever since he was a little kid. The first year after his parents’ death, Alfred says, Bruce scared him half to death because he hid out in the big oak tree in the backyard for a few hours, and Alfred had had no idea where he’d gotten to. Since the number of residents in the manor has increased (some would say _exploded_ ), Bruce has had less and less solitary time. This includes anniversaries. To be fair, not all of this is his children’s fault— Bruce has also gotten busier over the years as his prominence as Batman and as the CEO of W.E. has increased. 

But, the point still stands: Bruce can’t remember the last time he spent an anniversary completely alone. And he’s looking forward to it this year. Again, it is not that he doesn’t love his children, it’s just that it’s hard for him to mourn with them around. A lot of the residents of Wayne manor are orphans, it’s true, but they all have (or had) different relationships with their own parents, and a lot of them had been children when they’d come to Bruce. So, because of this, Bruce had had to hold himself together. And then, when they _were_ old enough to understand, they still didn’t quite get it— sure, everyone was sympathetic, but none of them _knew_ Thomas or Martha Wayne like Bruce did. Not even Alfred, because Thomas and Martha weren’t his parents. If Bruce had had a sibling… but no, he wouldn’t wish his pain on anyone else. So, in short, Bruce is looking forward to the alone time. 

About two weeks ago, when he first had the idea, Bruce had booked a room at the St. Regis, the downtown Metropolis branch. It was short notice, but they were happy to accommodate for Bruce Wayne. Since then, his plan had evolved, but for him, it is fairly spur-of-the-moment. This is oddly nice, for a change. 

One thing he _had_ done is add tequila. 

**~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~**

Of course, Bruce couldn’t just take a bottle from the house, because Alfred _would definitely_ notice that. Also, Bruce didn’t want his kids (even the ones of legal age) to see him walking around with an entire bottle of something, especially something like tequila. Bruce also didn’t want to take something from the house for the sheerly-practical reason that whatever he did have in the house would be expensive; for instance, the few bottles of _Don Julio Real_ tequila that were floating around in the basement from the last Fourth of July gala were $400 each. Bruce was planning on getting very, very drunk, and knew that he was going to feel shitty about it tomorrow. He didn’t need (or want) another reason to feel shitty in the morning. So drinking that particular brand of tequila was out. Bruce just needed something that wasn’t absolutely terrible, relatively inexpensive, and would do the job _fast_. 

On the way to Metropolis, he stopped at Wegmans and bought a bottle of _El Jimador_ , an assorted package of drink flavorings, a bottle of aspirin, a bottle of V8, and several packets of instant coffee. Thankfully, they were used to Bruce Wayne at this location, and so nobody tried to engage him too much. Bruce still gave the cashier a $100 dollar tip. 

With his quick stop at the store, and the traffic, Bruce ended up getting into Metropolis around 7:45. He pulled up outside the St. Regis, stuffed his paper grocery bag into his overnight suitcase, handed the keys to the valet, and checked in. His room was on the 21st floor, and had a view of the news district. If he leaned forward, he could see the _Daily Planet_ building. 

It was an artfully decorated room— modern design, white marble, black furniture, silver appliances and fixtures. There was an overly-large mahogany dining table, with enough room for ten, and a gas fireplace with little stones in its base. The bedroom was no less expansive; the bed was almost as big as Bruce’s. It was decorated in the same modern style as the rest of the suite. 

Bruce took out the shopping bag and tossed his suitcase on the bed. He put the V8 and the drink flavors in the fridge. Then he sat in the (black) armchair, and took off his shoes. The carpet was very soft. He ordered room service, and texted Alfred that he’d arrived safely in Metropolis while he waited. 

Once the food had arrived, Bruce thanked the staff member, tipped them, and flicked on the tv to the news. He ate absentmindedly, thinking about recent cases, league business, W.E. affairs, and what the kids were up to. As soon as he was done, Bruce set the dishes in a neat stack in the sink and went hunting for a shot glass. He also pulled out the V8, and the drink flavors, from the fridge. 

The noise from the television grew irritating. Impatiently, Bruce flicked it off. The silence was so overwhelming that Bruce almost turned it back on, just for the sound of the newscasters’ voices. But he held out, and tossed the remote onto the couch. Bruce dragged the armchair closer to the window, so he had a better view of the city, and then brought over the small coffee table too, and transferred his drinking supplies onto it. He set a reminder: “Brush teeth,” and an alarm for 11 a.m. 

Bruce poured some V8 into the glass, along with a generous helping of the tequila, and raised his glass. “Here’s to you, mom,” he said, and tossed it back, grimacing slightly. Suitably, it burned going down. 

**~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~**

At some point, hours later that night, Bruce had switched to straight tequila. Ordinarily, he _hated_ the taste of pretty much all alcohol, but with enough in him, Bruce didn’t mind so much. “Ahh,” he gasped, after his latest shot. His taste buds were mostly numb, and Bruce’s tongue felt heavy. Ironically, he felt thirsty, too. Bruce squinted at the clock, and looked consideringly at the bottle again. He thought he’d had seven shots, but wasn’t quite sure… probably a good sign to stop, and drink some water. 

Bruce stumbled to his feet and, after a few tries, managed to get a glass out and fill it more than halfway. But… why did his face feel wet? Bruce gulped down the water, and probably spilled about a quarter of it on himself. That still didn’t answer why his face felt wet. Distantly, a voice (one he recognized as Batman’s) said: “that’s because you’re crying, _you idiot_.” Oh. _Why was he crying, again?_

“Birthday… Martha’ssss birthday,” Bruce mumbled-slurred to himself. Oh, _right_. His mother’s birthday. His mother, who had been gunned down, along with his father… years (and Bruce couldn’t even do the math right now, he was so drunk) ago. Martha, who had been the _perfect_ mother, despite only being a mother— _his_ mother— for eight precious years. Despite the fact that these days, Bruce could barely remember what she sounded like, what her laugh had been like, what her perfume smelled like. Could not remember so many things. 

And the kicker was that Bruce would _never_ know what he’d forgotten, because it was simply not there anymore. Bruce could be missing vital information about his mother, information he once knew, _and not even know it_. Because now Bruce was older than his own mother had ever been, and wasn’t that sad? A fully-grown man (some might even call him an _old_ man), weeping over his long-dead mother, tequila-drunk, in a hotel room. 

Bruce didn’t think it was very sad. He was too busy weeping. _Away, away, get away_ , his brain said. So Bruce stumbled out of the kitchen, phone in hand, and bumped along the wall into the bedroom. As he fell across the bed, Bruce had already brought up the contact information for Clark Kent. 

**~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~**

Joker was kicking at his head, and he was wearing steel-toed boots. Bruce opened his eyes with a groan, and then winced. As he swallowed, Bruce grimaced. _His mouth hadn’t tasted this bad since he’d crash-landed on Matis IV, and been stranded there for nearly two weeks. He’d subsided on weird cactus-like flora and alien-scorpions_. Bruce glances at his phone and sees three things: first, it is _seven-goddamned-in-the-morning_ , secondly, no wonder his mouth tastes so foul, he forgot to brush his teeth (according to the reminder he’d set for himself), and three, he has a missed call from Clark. That’s probably what woke him. Bruce scowls, and thinks some very uncharitable things before turning over again with a groan and promptly passing out. 

He reawakens to an alarm he doesn’t remember setting at eleven a.m. Bruce groans again, but decides against throwing his phone at the wall. It would cause more problems than it would solve. Although, the noise _really_ isn’t helping the pounding in his head, which, somehow, has gotten _more severe_ since his brief reawakening earlier. 

“Fuuuccckk,” Bruce curses as he rolls out of bed. _So this is a hangover_. Bruce tries to recall if he’s ever felt this bad before and actually… can’t. He frowns. No, not once, ever, can he _remember_ having a hangover like this. Surely, he must have, but right now, nothing comes to mind. Mostly because he’s got other things clamoring for his attention. 

The most pressing issue is his bladder, so Bruce relieves himself, and then heads to the kitchen. If he remembers correctly— and Bruce is honestly not sure if he does, at this point, goddamn— he left the aspirin there last night. Bruce chugs a tall glass of water, and actually winces at the taste of his mouth. Right, he still needs to brush his teeth. But that can wait until his head isn’t pounding like he’s getting beat around by motherfucking Bane. For _that_ to happen, he needs to get rehydrated, and take some pills. 

Bruce chugs another glass of water, and oh, that’s when his stomach announces itself. He’d last eaten around 8:15 last night, and while his dinner wasn’t small, Bruce burns a shit-ton of calories, so he’s hungry. But, in addition to the hunger, is the mild nausea (both from the headache and from chugging the water). Bruce scowls again. “Fuck.” He remembers the V8 juice sitting in the fridge. V8 has calories, and also shouldn’t be too hard on his stomach. It will have to tide him over until he’s more presentable, and actually awake. Bruce didn’t think ahead and pre-order a room service breakfast. 

Bruce chugs about half of the remaining bottle of V8 juice, grimacing as he does. He pops a couple of aspirin, and then starts the coffee maker. His stomach briefly feels worse, and Bruce actually thinks he might vomit for a minute. He closes his eyes and breathes. After it settles, he takes a quick shower and brushes his teeth (twice). By the time he’s dressed and more presentable, the headache has gone down (some) and Bruce doesn’t feel half-bad. But, of course, this is half-bad for _him_ , so most other people would still be lying in bed, or puking. 

Bruce comes back into the kitchen and pours himself a cup of black coffee. It is nowhere near as good as Alfred's, he knows that, but in that moment, Bruce would say it’s the best thing he’s _ever_ tasted. Then he has another, and looks at his phone. It’s almost 12:30, which is getting late, even for him. But, Bruce remembers from somewhere, checkout isn’t until 4, so he’s got plenty of time. Bruce pours himself another cup of coffee and retreats to the couch. He calls in a breakfast order to room service. 

**~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~**

As he eats, Bruce scrolls on his phone, checking the news in Gotham first (he’s relieved to see nothing about any major break-outs or Batfamily incidents), and then his personal stuff. There’s four new W.E. emails, a text from Alfred, another from Tim, and three from Clark, plus the missed call. Bruce frowns. He vaguely recalls looking at Clark’s contact info last night, for reasons currently unknown, and has the sinking suspicion that he might have _actually called_ the man. Bruce takes the last bite of his breakfast, sets it with the dishes from last night, and dials reluctantly. _Well, might as well get this over with now_. 

“Bruce?” Clark asks, sounding anxious. 

Bruce nearly groans. His friend is being entirely too loud. Not that Bruce would ever _tell him_ that, considering that he’s probably already made a fool of himself. Bruce curses tequila, and himself. Because Bruce Wayne is an _idiot_ ; the fact that he’s Batman should be discarded. “Hello, Clark,” he says calmly, or, as calmly as he can, “You called me this morning. And texted me several times last night. I believe I may have called you first.” 

Clark still sounds anxious, but it’s not the I’m-going-to-fly-over-this-second kind anymore, thankfully. “Yes! You did… I, er, was _concerned_ and wanted to talk to you about that because. Well. Because you sounded _drunk_ , Bruce, and I was worried.” 

Bruce sighs, and closes his eyes. He rubs at his temples. “I was afraid of that,” he says calmly. 

Clark lets out a nervous chuckle. “Yeah, well… Hey! You didn’t let any league secrets slip, so…” 

Bruce rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t concerned about that, Clark. _You’re_ in the league.” 

Thankfully, Clark takes the hint, and Bruce doesn’t have to spell it out for him. _Thank god for investigative journalists_. Clark says, “You went on a five minute rant about why water is wet, for some reason. Talked about how W.E. needs to invest in, and I quote, ‘a form of dry water,’ and then…” 

Bruce curses himself in his head. Dry water. Dear god. He forces himself to ask, “And then?” 

Clark swallows. “And then,” he continues, “you talked about your mother. Martha. It was kind of difficult to understand at some points, but the gist of it was something about remembering or not, or misremembering. How once you forget something, you won’t know what you’ve forgotten, and so it’s like it was never there. You kinda broke down after that…” 

This time Bruce lets a few moments of silence hang on the line before he finally goes, “Hn. I was afraid of that. Thank you for… _informing me_ , Clark. I’ll see you next week at the league meeting.” 

Clark sounds surprised when he says, “Oh! O… okay. If you’re sure you don’t need anything, I’ll see you later, Bruce.” 

“Hn. No, I’m good. Bye, Clark.” Bruce hangs up the phone. _Fuck_. 

**~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~`*`*`~**

Bruce finally checks out at 2 p.m. Before that, he makes sure to leave a generous tip for housekeeping, dumps the rest of the tequila down the drain, drinks another cup of coffee, chugs the rest of the V8, and takes more aspirin. Then, he retrieves the car from the valet and starts the drive home. Thankfully, he’s left at an off time and so there is very little traffic between Metropolis and Gotham. Bruce keeps the windows in the Porsche down the entire drive. It helps the headache and nausea. He wishes he’d thought to bring sunglasses. Bruce swears never to buy tequila again. 

He gets home around 3:15, and intends to sneak by the kitchen (hoping that Alfred won’t be there to question him) to no avail. As soon as he’s through the foyer, he hears Alfred call sharply, “Master Bruce. If that is you, Sir, please come in here.” 

Bruce curses his luck, and slinks into the kitchen. He tries not to feel like a teenager who has broken curfew (something he’d himself done a _number_ of times in his youth). “Hello, Alfred,” he says. Alfred sighs quietly and sets down his knife. He’d been cutting up carrots. From the look of the pile of vegetables, and the smell of simmering broth, he’s making stew. 

“How was your evening with _Master Clark_ , Sir?” Alfred asks sarcastically. Bruce winces. Alfred gives him a baleful stare. Bruce swallows. But, before he can say anything, Alfred continues, “Imagine my surprise, when Master Clark called around eight p.m. last night asking if I knew where you were. Imagine how curious this experience must have been, for surely, you were with him, as that is what you had told me.” Bruce winces again. Alfred scowls, but picks up the knife again, and gives the carrots a savage chop. 

“I do not care _where_ you go, my boy, or even if you wish to go there alone. Simply _tell me_ next time,” Alfred finally says. Bruce swallows again, feeling suitably small and stupid. 

“Will do, Al,” he says quietly. 

Alfred nods, and then says, “I assume you have taken care of yourself, and know where the pain medication is kept, Sir?” Bruce smiles. 

“Yes. Thank you, Alfred. If you don’t mind, I’m going to go put this bag away,” Bruce says. 

Alfred nods again, accepting his awkward excuse for leaving. “Dinner will be served promptly at 6 p.m. tonight, Sir. So snack accordingly,” he says. Bruce waves a hand in acknowledgement as he leaves the kitchen. Then he trudges up the stairs towards his room. The _real_ reason he’s heading up is to take a nap. A hangover, apparently, is something that can exhaust even _Batman’s_ resources.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I did a bunch of calculating and poking around the internet to try and be accurate with the drinking stuff. If I'm not, don't sue me *shrugs*. Here's where I got (some of) my info:
> 
> https://vinepair.com/articles/how-many-drinks-per-bottle/
> 
> https://www.niaaa.nih.gov/alcohol-health/overview-alcohol-consumption/what-standard-drink
> 
> https://www.verywellmind.com/the-symptoms-of-a-hangover-67354
> 
> http://getdrunknotfat.com/drinking-calculator/
> 
> https://www.google.com/search?q=how+much+does+batman+weigh&ie=&oe=


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